


1961 - Those who are lost

by harin91



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Antisemitism, Aquariums, Bullying, Epiphanies, Family Dynamics, Haircuts, Journalism, M/M, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serious Injuries, Single Parents, Slow Burn, Smut, Writing, mentions of Holocaust and concentration camps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-28 15:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harin91/pseuds/harin91
Summary: A journey through healing, learning and loss.





	1. September 9th - September 26th - October 1st

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers**: no disrespect intended toward the real war veterans, their families and their memory, this is a work of fiction based on the characters portrayed in the miniseries 'Band of Brothers' and some informations gathered about their lives after the WWII.  
As usual, this fic is **not beta-readed and English is not my first language**. Apologises for any mistake you might find.
> 
> As I said some days ago on my Tumblr blog (@brightly-painted-canvas) this is an attempt at a Webgott long fic that I am forcing myself to publish before I have finished writing it (mostly considering how long it's gonna get).  
My main block with publishing ongoing stories is that I don’t always find the motivation to continue and finish them and I hate having open AO3 works that are never gonna see an end.
> 
> Let's see how it goes, especially since I've planned more chapters, but this first one can also work as a stand-alone if things go downhill with my writing inspiration.

**September 9th.**

_ The boat rattles, shakes and groans at every blast of wind, every wave it barely rides. _

_ The sea screams and tears at the ropes with its salty fingers, big hands of frothing white and black water. _

_ It’s terrifying and beautiful: nature. _

_ Clouds and foam of the same grey getting illuminated by the flashes of lightings as the thunders rumble over the lamenting cries of the fishing boat, once thought so strong, now turned afraid and fragile like a smaller fish chased by its predator. _

_ Creaks and snaps announce the wreckage of the mast, then the rudder. _

_ Unable to keep facing the waves, the boat turns on itself and tips to the side, giving up to the chase, its destiny of doom. _

_ The splash into the water is a shock of cold and pain, darkness and pressure, loud whistles in the ears and salt stinging the eyes. _

_ Bubbles and debris cover the surface like a heavy coat, a push downward into the infinite black. Water gurgles and penetrates the lungs, pushing out the last of oxygen, the last of breath. _

_ It’s a quick descent into the abyss. _

Ken!

_ There is the jagged frame of a half-demolished window in a cold, desolated bombed out building. _

_ There is a night he can remember, the low sound of rattling fire and the boom of mortars in the distance, the golden cherry of a cigarette letting out a fleeble trail of white smoke. _

_ The silhouette of a man he knows, sitting on the dusty and old windowsill, looking outside at the starless night, waiting. _

Kenyon?

_ Sun rays burn on his skin and the light is so strong it is difficult to distinguish the surroundings, but it’s impossible not to recognise the green pastures and pine trees forests, the warm air of summer on a hilltop. _

_ In the distance, the small outline of a roof with a smoking chimney appears from the slope of the road. _

_ The rumble of a motor is the only thing breaking the perfect silence. _

David!

_ Underneath is the feeling of cold tiles on a bathroom floor. All around, a tense, uncomfortable silence. _

_ There’s the presence of another person, curled on the floor, head bowed and hidden, shaking with soundless uncontrollable sobs. _

_ One hand is on the floor, closed tight in a fist, knuckles white, skin marred, pale and sickly. _

Why do I keep seeing you? Why are you here?

_ How would I know? _

Joe…

_ Wake up, Web. _

David! Wake up!

**September 26th.**

“I think you should take into consideration coming with me.” Ann was saying, trying to sound convincing: “Come home for a while.”

She was sat there, at the bedside, hands rubbing together on her lap, looking intently at everything else in the room except for her brother.  
They both knew this conversation was due to happen sooner or later, but this knowledge didn’t help her being less nervous about it, and didn’t make David less apathetic.

He was looking outside the window: the sun was shining over the calm waves of the ocean, the long strip of white sand and the tall palm trees in the distance.

“Mom and dad are worried, Ken.” she added and he scoffed, making it obvious he was listening, but at the same time he wasn’t agreeing.

“Maybe it’s best if you get away from the West Coast for now. What good would it do to stick around now that the boat is gone? You can get back anytime, dad might even introduce you to someone from a newspaper, get you another place as a reporter…” she suggested, still looking too uncomfortable not to be parroting something coming straight from their parents.

“What do _ you _ think I should do?” he asked, suddenly. His voice was still hoarse, his breathing still wheezing and difficult.

“Ken…” she tried.

“What’s your real opinion, sister? What do you think I should do?” he repeated, finally averting his eyes from the scenery outside the hospital’s window to look straight into her green eyes.

“I… don’t know. I’m worried about you. I know you pour yourself into your researches body and soul and you never compromise. But Kenyon, this time you almost… you…” she breathed heavily, trying to calm herself. Her voice was shaking, tinted with unshed tears: “You think they don’t care, but they do. We all do. We can’t live in constant fear of losing you this way… back then it was the war, now it’s… storms and…”

“If they really cared, if they wanted to see me safe and alive I think they’d be here with you. Instead, they asked you to deliver their message.” interrupted her David: “I won’t come back to New York.” he decided.

She suddenly looked afraid, like she was picturing something terrifying in her mind.

“I’ll stay on land for a while.” he said, trying to send her a reassuring smile and patting the hospital bed he was laying on to get her closer.

She placed her cold hand over his and bent to kiss his bandaged forehead.

“Please, be careful.” she pleaded, fear still visible in her clear, expressive eyes: “Give it time, let yourself heal. Call if you need anything.” she added.

_ Heal. _

He nodded, looking back at the placid sunny day outside the window.

_ Heal _wasn’t the only word he could hear.

_ Will see you someplace else... _

_ Must’ve liked that hospital… _

_ Weren’t in Bastogne... _

He glanced down at his hand, still cupping his sister’s: his was bigger and warmer, covered in small scars, in wrinkles, in sea eroded and sun darkened skin.

“I will.” he agreed, without lifting his gaze.

**October 1st.**

The hospital papers he had signed to be let home said something along the line of _ boat accident, drowning, concussion, two broken ribs, fractures, bruises, cuts _ . _ Five days of coma _.

What the doctors had said to him after he woke up were words similar to _ miracle, near death, expected long recovery _.

What he replied to Burt Christenson’s cheerful “How are you doing, buddy?” at the phone, was: “All good, Pat.” with a forced smile that fortunately the interlocutor couldn’t see and try to decipher.

His cottage was still dark, smelling of sea salt and dust, frozen in the same state in which he left it 21 days before.

David sat on the only armchair in the living room, tactically placed next to the phone and a pile of old books. By his feet there was a coffee table, covered in newspapers, notes and cigarette stubs.

“Listen, I need your help with something, hope I’m not bothering.” he told Christenson.

“I’m all ears.” replied the old friend, easy and unperturbed.

David could barely hear a mix of background noises from the other side of the line, a shuffle of movements and voices like Christenson’s house was full of people, talking and laughing and having fun.  
As a matter of fact, it was a Sunday and it was just around noon.

David looked around his shadowed empty house before posing his question.

It took David one hour to decide what to do with the informations provided by his phone call with Christenson.

It took him five more hours to get to the city from his sea house, a long car ride the doctors had just suggested him to try and avoid considering his healing bones and still somehow disoriented, dizzy mind.

The building was a long and narrow, with red brick walls and large white windows. The entrance door was open and the dusty old stairs led David to the second floor, as indicated on the note he had scribbled down earlier, hunched painfully over his still healing ribs, on a piece of paper found over the coffee table.

He rang the bell of the only black wooden door on the floor, looking around the small space of the hallway, holding his breath.

The door opened and there he was: Joseph D. Liebgott, same as David’s memories apart from the 16 years that separated the image in his mind from the real man in front of him.

He stared at Joe’s expression changing from startled to worried to annoyed in the split of a second and then he breathed out, recognizing the bitter, provoking smirk settling on the older man’s face.

“The fuck you’re here for?” he asked, breaking the stale silence of the staircase.

David grimaced, trying not to look too bothered by the not-too-gentle words he had just received as a greeting, the first after almost two decades of wait.

“Hi, Joe. How have you been?” tried David, an attempt to steer the conversation toward a safer and more formal plane.

Joe frowned an shrugged. He moved his hand in a vague gesture, before getting back inside the house without a word, mocking a surprisingly still well trained soldier’s turnaround.

David shuffled from one foot to another, not knowing what to do: he guessed he could just leave now that he at least had seen the person he was looking for.

But Joe had left the door open, so he stepped inside a small flat, noticing the narrow corridor leading to a living room and a kitchen with a peninsula table: Joe was behind it, obviously busy preparing dinner.

David looked at his back while he worked, turned toward the stove: he was wearing a white shirt and black slacks with suspenders, only one still stretched on his right shoulder, the other resting at his hip.  
He still wore his thick dark hair longer on the top side, carelessly swooped backward like waves of smoothly carved ebony.   
He still had the thinnest waist David had ever seen on a man, a man who almost two decades before had took part in Easy Company’s training at Camp Toccoa and had endured endless muscles exercises running up and down Currahee. That was definitely a department where the US army had failed: they won the war, but they never succeeded in bulking up skinny Joseph Liebgott.

When he turned around, David could study his face and everything he remembered about it: his long nose, sharp jaw and cheekbones, the cut of his dark eyes, the furrowing of his brows in concentration and mild annoyance. The shocking redness of his lips on an otherwise pale and washed out complexion.

He was older and he looked older, surprisingly in those exact same spots that David had pictured in his mind he would have shown aging: the dimples around his mouth were now permanent marks, just like a few more lines around his eyes and on his forehead.  
The round scar on his neck was white instead of pink, faint like a distant memory.

An unusual feeling rose from deep inside David as he kept looking: longing.  
_ I didn’t know _ it screamed in his mind, burning his already painful lungs, carving a hole at the bottom of his stomach _ but I’ve missed him _.

“I should probably…” he choked out, trying to convince himself it was better to let go, to leave it like it had been for years.

Joe looked up at him, almost as if he was still processing David’s presence in his house: he wasn’t surprised, or perplexed. He just seemed resigned, like he had known all along this moment, this meeting, this confrontation between them was due to happen.

Despite what he just tried to say, David didn’t even attempt to move.

Joe sighed loudly, closed his eyes for a moment and yelled: “Dinner!” loud enough that his voice startled the other man and resonated through the small house.

Shock run down David’s spine as he heard fast footsteps approaching and saw two young girls rounding the corner at the end of the corridor and sprinting toward the kitchen.

“Finally! We were starving, _ ta _!” said the older looking one, maybe around nine or ten: she spared the quickest, most uninterested glance ever at the guest in the corner before jumping up on a stool right in front of the plate Joe had just served.

David was appalled by the resemblance: he could had met her in the middle of a busy street and still he would had known, without a doubt, she was a Liebgott: same nose, same small red mouth, icy brown eyes, glossy dark waves of hair. She wore it in a long braid down her back, together with her father’s proud stance and permanent scowl.

Joe snickered, stopping what he was doing to bend down and help the younger child up on a highchair: “Starving already? Didn’t you have ice cream at _ bubbe _’s house?”

“That was like, ages ago.” replied stubbornly the girl.

The smaller one had yet to say a word, but had been intently staring at David since she entered the room: she was probably around three years old, with dirty blond locks of hair and big green eyes. Her face was rounder than her sister’s, but her fair complexion and thin mouth still recalled the family traits.

“That was three hours ago, Rou.” replied unperturbed her father, then he suddenly seemed to realise something while looking at the youngest’s tiny fingers already gripping her spoon.

“Did you rascals wash your hands?” he asked, a purely rhetorical question.

Rou looked caught for a second, then she held up her hands saying: “C’mon, they’re clean enough.”

Joe huffed, picking the younger girl up and placing her back down on the floor, gesturing his other daughter to get to the bathroom: “Wash your hands or keep starving, runt. Your choice.” he deadpanned, then added: “And help your sister.” guiding the younger to the corridor while Rou huffed and grumbled.

As the girls disappeared behind the bathroom’s door and silence came back in the kitchen and living room, David realised he was staring, standing still with his mouth open, forming a small ‘o’ of disbelief.

Joe was looking at him expectantly, knowing he was going to say something.

“So…” he croaked, but then nothing else came out.

“Ruth and Hannah.” provided Joe unhelpfully, lowering his gaze on the table to resume serving their plates: “I guess by your reaction that there aren’t some little Websters wandering the world that I should be worried about?”

“I guess not, unless you count my brother’s son?” he suggested dumbly.

Joe shrugged again: “I don’t have time for nephews. Are you staying for dinner?” he asked suddenly, turning toward the cupboard to fetch another set of plates and cutlery.

“I don’t know.” he blurted out, taken aback once again in the span of a few minutes.

Joe shook his head, glancing quickly at his daughters coming back from the bathroom and declaring: “Well, try and decide it as soon as possible, would you?” with a tiny smirk, serving yet another plate and then helping Hannah sit on her chair.

“Who is that, _ tatti _?” asked the little girl, still entranced by David’s presence in their house.

“A guest. Wear your bib, lil monkey.” said back Joe, changing his tone of voice while giving said bib directly into his girl’s little hand.

“Is he like uncle Stephen? Or like uncle Chuck?” asked Ruth, already stuffing her mouth with stew and green peas.

“He’s like neither, don’t talk with your mouth full.” sighed Joe, sitting down and sighing like he had been repeating that same sentence over and over for the past few years.  
He then glanced at David, briefly signaling with his head to sit at the last seat around the table and eat dinner with them like he had been officially invited.

“What’s his name?” asked Hannah, still looking straight at the stranger in the room, distracted enough that she still wasn’t eating her food.

“Why don’t you ask him, kiddo?” proposed Joe, reaching out to cut the content of her plates in tiny pieces for her to spoon up.

Hannah stuttered and blushed while shyly ask: “What’s your name?” directly at David.

He smiled at the little girl as he sat down awkwardly at the table, facing her and with Ruth and Joe at his sides: “I’m David. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Hannah. Can I call you Davie? I already know a David.” she reasoned politely.

“Sure. How would you like to be called?” he asked back.

“Annie is fine.” she smiled as her father urged her to eat her dinner.

“What is it that you do, David?” asked Ruth, already halfway to finishing her plate of stew.

“I... “ he stuttered, trying to find his words: “I write. Mostly articles for local newspapers.”

She didn’t look interested to the topic so she soldiered on with questions: where are you from, how old are you, how do you know my dad?

At this he glanced at Joe, quietly eating and listening to David’s interrogation: he wasn’t sure how he should reply.

He hesitated long enough for Joe to intervene: “Went to war together.”

“Oh, so he’s like uncle Chuck. And uncle Don.” she stated, seemingly satisfied with her conclusions.

David glanced down at his plate, considering her words. He supposed Ruth was referring to Grant and Malarkey: were them the only two Easy men the girls had met? Christenson knew where Liebgott lived, but he wasn’t sure he was also aware Joe had married and had kids (or at least he didn’t mention it over the phone).  
Did Joe keep in touch with many of the others?

Was he the only one who hadn’t heard from Joe (or from any of them, for that matter) in more than 15 years?

“Do you know _ ima _?” asked suddenly Hannah, recalling his attention.

He hesitated again, this time because Joe loudly put down his fork and knife on his plate and got up to fetch something in the kitchen while declaring: “No, he didn’t.” and adding: “_ Tokhal ett haarukhah shelekha _. Let him breathe a little.”

With that, the conversation was over.

The girls continued eating in silence, occasionally exchanging quick glances with David, who ate from his own plate feeling strangely guilty and confused.

“Christenson?” asked Joe after dinner, as David was helping washing and drying the dishes and the girls were in their room.

“I didn’t know who else to ask.” admitted David, looking down at the well-used rag in his hands.

“Why asking in the first place?” snickered Joe, but letting his curiosity slip behind his sarcastic tone.

David shook his head: “I don’t know.”

Joe closed the tap, passing him the last plate to dry and moving away from the sink to fetch a packet of smokes and a lighter from the fridge’s top: “Isn’t there a whole lot of stuff you don’t seem to know, Web? Weren’t you the one who went to Harvard and shit?”

The other just shrugged, grimacing briefly at the pain that came with abruptly rising his left shoulder.

Joe didn’t seem to notice, lighting up a cigarette and reaching the kitchen’s window to open the panes just a crack and puff smoke out of it.

“I guess I just wanted to see how you were.” said David after a while, still turned toward the kitchen counter, both hands gripping the edge like he needed support.

“Just peachy.” exhaled Joe together with some more smoke, looking at his back as he asked: “What now? You disappear for the next twenty years or so? You’ll start sending Christmas cards?” he laughed bitterly: “We don’t celebrate, by the way.”

“I figured. Do they also know German?” asked David.  
He turned around, facing Joe to ask: “Would you want me to disappear?”

Joe put out his cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill: “Do whatever you want, Web.” and added: “No, only Hebrew. Their mother insisted.”

David paused, noticing how Joe flinched at his own words, crossing his arms around his chest in a defence position against the next inevitable question.

“What happened, Joe?” muttered David, almost like he wanted to avoid hearing the answer.

“She died.” replied Joe, laconically.

They stayed in silence for a while. Joe was looking outside the window with a distant gaze, a look on his face that David knew from the past, but that now aged his features even more than time: what war did to Joe, what life kept taking from him.

David asked himself what he was supposed to do.  
A good friend would probably offer a hug and his condolences, but he and Joe never were that close, no matter what his mind was telling him.   
Joe had been right about that: they had disappeared from each other’s lives for 16 years and now they were back at stage one, not knowing or understanding a single thing about the other, not even caring from what had always seemed Joe’s part.

He heard distantly the sound of Ruth and Hannah’s voices, glanced at the clock on the wall revealing it was just about to strike 9pm. On the fridge, together with the pack of cigarettes and lighter, there was a pile of bills and notes, cards and letters that seemed unopened, a calendar of the previous year still fixed on the month of June.

The house was small and cozy and could be described as well lived and nicely decorated if it wasn’t in a clear state of disarray: Joe had never struck him as an extremely tidy person, but he had been a soldier and they had all learnt, more or less, the discomfort coming from an excess of mess. This was abandonment.

And Joe looked tired at first glance, but something deeper and darker after the second. Not even on the truck back from the camp had David seen him like that, lacking his inner flame of unrelenting anger and heat, not even reverting to desperation and pain like he did back then: he was hollowed, helpless.

David didn’t like how he could see that now, how he could feel it.

“I must go.” he considered out loud: he had five more hours of travel back and his chest was already killing him, aching like new punctures in his lungs, making his head dizzy and his stance wobbly.

Joe nodded wordlessly, still not looking at him.

“I think… I’d like to come back, if that’s okay with you.” he admitted, finally asking for permission not to disappear, like he should have done before coming there.

Like they should have discussed years before.

“Do whatever you want.” repeated Joe, but David saw his expression change in his reflection on the window: his mouth had curved up just slightly, his eyes seemed just a bit more focused.

He smiled back and left.

\---

**Notes**:

My difficulties with writing children are already clear in this first part, but I liked the idea of Ruth and Hannah too much not to try and have them around from the start. If you're curious about my headcanons, Ruth Mary is 10 and a half years old and Hannah Sarah is 3.

I hope you liked it! If you have questions or you want to talk about this fic, come have a chat on Tumblr @brightly-painted-canvas.


	2. October 2nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David gets his job back. Then he gets to know the girls a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as the first chapter.
> 
> If you have questions or you want to talk about this fic, come have a chat on Tumblr @brightly-painted-canvas.

**October 2nd.**

_ He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, a white mug in his joined hands, on his lap. The brim of the cup smokes in transparent strips, hot in the freezing and humid air of the morning. _

_ The window is open and they can hear the slow undertow of the sea. _

_ “‘ _ Teller of tales’ _ uh?” he asks, a disbelieving grin morphing his voice. _

_ “Don’t like it?” he replies, shifting on the bed to stretch his back. His right foot almost touches the other man’s back. _

_ “Would it make a difference if I said I don’t?” comes then, a full-on smirk on lips slightly tinted with coffee. _

_ “No.” he grins back: “I’ve already got it painted on the side.” he states. _

_ The other shrugs, hot liquid probably sloshing sightly inside the mug. _

_ “I don’t care.” he sighs, fondly: “A pretentious boat for a pretentious fucker.” _

_ “Thanks.” he rolls over, sitting up to scoot closer to the other form on the bed, peering inside the cup from behind his shoulder: there’s a tiny sea of dark brown, steaming. _

_ “You’ll love it.” he whispers, bending slightly on his supporting arm to kiss the round, white scar on the other’s neck. _

David woke up to the sound of scraping just outside the closed window.

He lifted his arms to escape the uncomfortable trap of his twisted sheets, his limbs still feeling too heavy and bruised for him to start moving right away.

He waited, then, a few beats more, before turning around to investigate the origin of the noise.

He sighed once he saw it, slowly getting up on his feet, wincing for the diffuse pain coming from various part of his body, hopping with some difficulties to the windowsill to open the panes and let a white and red cat inside.

The small animal meowed once and started purring, butting its tiny head against David’s extended hand, demanding to be petted.

“Aida.” he called the cat, smiling fondly at her: “What’s the matter?”

The cat just meowed once more, sitting back to regard him with her big green eyes.

David sighed again, taking a step back and turning around to slowly head to the kitchen.

The cat tailed after him, bouncing on her soft paws and accelerating only when she saw the house owner opening the fridge and inspecting it for a few seconds.

She didn’t get a chance to peer inside herself, as he closed the door and shook his head: “I must do some grocery first, darling.” he explained apologetically to the cat.

Then he stepped toward the pantry, looking inside to consider if there was something edible for her (and him, possibly).

“It’s our lucky day,” he exclaimed, re-emerging with a can of tuna and a pack of cereals in his hand: “There’s breakfast for you and for me.” he confirmed.

Aida meowed, running eagerly around his legs as she probably understood what he was holding and taking back to the kitchen.

He patted lightly on the table, inviting her to jump up: “I can’t possibly bend down to serve your dish, milady. Up you go.” and up she went.

He opened the can and gave her tuna on a small plate, then prepared his coffee, while munching on dry cereals straight from the box: “Look at us. Living the life.” he commented, peering at her from the rim of his scalding cup of coffee.

The cat just kept eating, fast and ravenously like she hadn’t been given food in a while.

“Who fed you while I wasn’t around? I’m sure there are at least two or three other idiots in the neighbourhood you goo-goo eyed and charmed into give you tuna and milk…” he considered, pausing like he was waiting for her response.

Aida just finished her plate, lifted her head to glance at him one last time and then jumped down the table, running softly to the bedroom, undoubtedly to sneak back outside.

David just shook his head, resting his less aching hip against the kitchen counter as he humorously murmured: “That’s a behaviour that doesn’t make me feel used at all…” he laughed softly: “I suppose it’s like having teenage kids.” and suddenly his mind wandered back to the previous night’s turn of events.

To Ruth and Hannah. To Joe.

Technician 5th grade Joseph D. Liebgott, Easy Company, 2nd battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division was a father of two.

David supposed it should feel right, normal. He hadn’t keep contact with most of his college acquaintances or fellow soldiers, but he could safely assume most of them had tied the knot and produced a second generation of troublemakers, bearing the same surname and at least some prominent physical features, so to speak.

It had been sixteen years since the war and fourteen since his graduation, he reasoned.  
To everyone else’s eyes he must have been the odd one. Alone and childless. Living in a seasalt scraped wooden cottage with a stray cat as the only (occasional) companion.

He had chosen this life: there had been a time, when he was still in New York, he had yearned for this. The solitude, the sound of the waves.

Joe, on the other hand, had wanted the whole wife and kids and big house life since those last days of war. He had told him so, even: on the back of a truck, in the middle of the German countryside, describing in details what he’d do once back in the States.

_ It’s gonna be good times _, he had said with his smirk and his dark eyes and his Californian accent tinted with an inflection that possibly only David in the whole company could decipher as what the son of two Austrian immigrants would possess in his speech.

_ Then I’m gonna find me a nice Jewish girl... _

They had only spoken about life after the war once.

David didn’t know why, then, realising Joe had tried and (partially) succeeded in following his life plans, had made him feel so puzzled.

And, most of all, Joe had seemed so prone to the task of being a father, so utterly fitting. He had only witnessed a dinner with the Liebgotts but David could tell Joe was raising his girls fairly, with the right amount of affection and discipline, something he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it for himself, torn between the memories of his own childhood with his own parents and what his mind always remembered of Joseph Liebgott from the time they had known each others. In Europe, during a war. Almost twenty years younger.

Liebgott was as fitted for the role of father as he had been fitted for the role of merciless killer soldier.

These thoughts accompanied David’s morning as he struggled to clean his house from the disarray and dust collected in one month of absence, tidying up with ever so slow and calculated movements not to bother his healing body too much.

It was a hard task, but it had to be done: he needed to sort his life out, now that he couldn’t have the source of all his life’s struggles and hardship back.

He couldn’t find his unfinished manuscript anywhere in the house, which probably meant he had took it with him the day of the storm, which also meant it now sat at the bottom of the ocean or was still somehow inside his boat.

His boat, which at the moment was kept in some depot along the coast, in tatters: some deputy from the police department had come to the hospital and given him a number and the names of a few people he might need to meet once he decided what to do with the relic.

Ann had suggested to ask them to dismantle it.

He had yet to make the call.

Instead he went out to buy milk for Aida and bread for him, he re-organized his desk and the piles of papers on the coffee table, he threw out some junk and then sat on his armchair, stiff and aching, his phone on his lap.

The line beeped twice before a cheerful and young female voice picked up and announced the name of the local newspaper he used to work for, one month prior.

He said his name and asked for his chief.

Two minutes later, he at least had his job back.

Five hours later, he was back in San Francisco, back to Joe’s front door.

He hesitated for a few seconds, then rang the bell and waited, once again feeling the need to hold his breath.

The door opened after a while, but instead of Joe, David found himself face to face with Ruth.

“You again?” she asked with her father’s identical unimpressed expression on her young features, posing right in front of him with one hand on her hip.

David waited one more instant to look at her completely baffled, then said: “Hi, Ruth. Is your father home?” trying once again to derail the tenor of the conversation to something more pleasant, just like one day prior.

“No.” she replied, not offering a follow up.

“When will he be home?” he asked again, already feeling much more tired than before this unexpected interrogation had started.

“Later. He’s working.” she huffed and rolled her eyes, turning around and walking back inside, but still leaving the door open.

Battling the sense of near deja-vu, David stepped inside and closed the door behind him, reaching the kitchen and living room and looking around cautiously.

Ruth had already resumed her position, splayed on the couch reading a book, seemingly without a care in the world. At her feet, on the carpet freed from the coffee table which had been pushed against the wall, Hannah was playing with her toys. At least until she saw David entering the room; then she just fixed him with a curious stare, keeping very still like any false movement could compromise her not-at-all-hidden hiding spot.

David waited a few moments to check for sounds from the other rooms, then asked: “Are you girls alone?” fearing their answer.

“Yep.” replied Ruth from behind the think cover of his book, popping the ‘p’ like she would a chewing gum.

David gulped, unsure if he should continue the conversation, but then he added: “Why?”

“‘Cause _ ta _ is at work. I told you that already!” protested Ruth, clearly irritated for being constantly distracted from her reading.

David nodded, for lack of much else to do: did Joe frequently leave the children all alone? Wasn’t an adult supposed to watch them when he was at work?

He chewed on his lower lip, slowly looking around the house as both Ruth and Hannah got back to their businesses, ignoring the almost complete stranger in their house.

_ And then there’s that _ , he thought _ they invited an almost complete stranger inside, while being home alone _. He felt panic rising, unsure if he’d better leave immediately or stay and watch over them and, most importantly, if he had to address the matter.

He decided to sit down on the couch, occupying the only spot left vacant by Ruth’s messy position and then, very carefully, he asked: “How often does this happen?”

“What?” asked Ruth, still not looking up from her book.

“You two, all alone in the house.” he explained.

“Once or twice a week, depends on _ ta _’s shifts. We’re fine, though.” she replied, glaring at him from over the brim of her reading, clearly aware she had to justify the situation to defend her father’s behaviour: “He leaves food in the fridge and I know how to take care of Hannah. She’s also learning how to put herself to bed.” she added, trying to sound very responsible and proud of her 3 years old sister.

So, the kids were left to fend for themselves twice a week because Joe had to work.

David suspected this regularly happened not because of lack of people willing to give a hand and babysit the kids (Joe had mentioned a grandmother the previous day, after all), but for excess of pride from Joe’s part. Usually the culprit, when it came to Liebgott.

He figured that on these days Ruth got back from school to keep an eye on her sister, eat a cold dinner and put Hannah and herself to bed before her father got home.

These thoughts brought back memories from David’s own childhood: big enough to be the one in charge of watching over John and Ann while they played in the garden, or helping them with reading their bedtime story books and with their homeworks.

But they’d had a nanny (five of them, hired and then dismissed one after the other by his picky mother, until even Ann grew old enough not to need one). And his parents were never absent from home for too long, so them kids never had to worry to be left alone in the evening or at night.

He could remember being afraid of the dark as a child: the shadowy corners of his too big house, the silence of the rooms in which only the adults were allowed to go. Everything was so tall, back then, so crushing: the walls of his house could rival the buildings of Manhattan he saw when they went outside, strolling around the city hand in hand with his siblings and their supervisors not to get lost in the crowd.

The oppressing sense of finitude he felt back then and still experienced every now and then in adulthood when he visited the city was probably one of the reasons why now he preferred the open sea as an ideal home: the silence wasn’t suffocating out there, but soothing.  
The sky was limitless and the orizon so distant and wide.  
He could breathe, there. Listen to his own mind.

He got abruptly woken up from his thoughts by a well dealt kick from Ruth on his exposed side, as she exasperatedly exclaimed: “I _ said _, are you staying for dinner!?”

He recoiled, hissing in pain and clutching at his waist to protect his bruised body, out of instinct.

Ruth looked rather taken aback by his reaction, muttering: “Sure that wasn’t too hard?” and David had to blink twice to convince himself this wasn’t a projection of his own tired mind of how Joe had looked back in Holland that one time he jokingly punched his already bruised side and got very upset after hearing his yelp of pain. This was in fact Joe’s daughter, almost twenty years later, afraid she had hurt him with a half-hearted playful kick.

“Yeah, no… I’m fine. I’m staying until your dad gets home.” he reasoned out loud, taking a long breath to expand his lungs and check if his healing ribs were still in place.

“We don’t need you around.” she said as a substitute of ‘we can take care of ourselves’.

“I’m sure, I just want to…” he paused, shaking his head: “I have something to tell him and I don’t mind waiting.” he half-lied.

“Suit yourself.” she huffed, once again pulling up her book: “Hope you like pastrami.”

“I don’t mind it.” he replied at the same time as Hannah chirped: “I love pastrami!” from her spot on the floor.

So David stood there on Joe’s couch watching over Joe’s daughters for an hour or so. Then they had dinner (pastrami, Hannah’s favourite) and David helped them set the table and, afterwards, do the washing.

The evening was mostly eventless, but still plenty chaotic: David found it was very easy to befriend Hannah, helping her eat and keeping her entertained with funny anecdotes and chatters, while Ruth kept mostly to herself, guarded and wary and so much like her father. Luckily, David had (illustrious) experiences with this kind of personalities, so they simply switched to tolerate each other’s presence, sometimes throwing clever and icy comments about something the other said or did.

“Who’s this?” asked David entering the girls’ bedroom, warmly invited and even dragged by the hand by an enthusiastic Hannah, while Ruth tailed after them.

He pointed to a giant plushie upside-down on Hannah’s bed and the little girl immediately ran to get it, hugging it close and showing it to her guest: it was a stuffed shark toy, looking well worn and with one slightly pending button eye.

“His name is Tooth.” said Hannah, holding it out for David to see.

“He’s cute, Annie.” he smiled, slowly crouching down at her level with just a small amount of pain.

“He’s also very brave. _ Tatti _ says he keeps me safe because bad dreams are his preys.” she calmly explained, clearly quoting someone else’s words for how carefully she pronounced the difficult words.

Ruth huffed from her bed, on which she was already splayed reading her book.

“Do you think it’s true?” asked then Hannah, while David eagerly shook Tooth’s right fin in greeting.

“If your father said so, then I’m sure it’s true.” he replied, hearing his own voice and immediately thinking _ oh, what would Joe give to witness this right now: me voluntarily agreeing with him _.

“Do you like sharks, Davie?” asked again Hannah, sounding genuinely curious as she graciously placed Tooth back on her bed and sat down on the carpeted floor, picking up another doll.

“I do. I love them very much.” he said, sitting down by her side to continue their conversation.

He explained how he’d been fascinated by sharks since he was her age, reading everything he could about them and dreaming once of becoming a shark expert.

Ruth was faking being engrossed in her reading, but was in fact attentively listening to them, every now and then glancing quickly to their side of the room.

“Have you ever seen a real shark?” asked Hannah, so taken by his stories that she had completely forgotten about the doll that laid against her bent leg.

“I have. I swam with three of them, once.” he replied, sure she would enjoy that tale.

“That’s a lie.” said Ruth, raising her eyebrow like she could tell for sure: “Can’t be true.”

“Why would you say that?” asked David, smirking for having caught her eavesdropping and knowing, for once, he had something on her.

“‘Cause they would have eaten you.” she shrugged.

“Well, they didn’t. Sharks only attack when they are hunting or are being threatened.” he explained calmly: “And, moreover, your father said they only eat bad dreams.” he concluded solemnly.

Ruth rolled her eyes, quietly commenting under her breath: “You must be a real nightmare, then…” but David choose to ignore her, instead catching the title on the cover of her book.

“Are you seriously reading George Orwell?” he asked, appalled: “How old are you again?”

“I wanna see sharks! Where can I see sharks, Davie?” interrupted them Hannah, grabbing David’s shirtsleeve to gather back his attention.

“The aquarium?” he suggested: “You should ask your father to take you sometimes, like I did with mine when I was little.” _ and never got taken, since Father was always so busy _ he added in his mind.

That made Hannah squeal with anticipation.

He had to recall some other stories about his fishing trips to calm her down, then miraculously managed to convince her and Ruth to call it a night and change into their pyjamas, as he promised to read Hannah her bedtime story.

Once sure they were both asleep (or almost there, at least), he left their room and got back to the living room, quietly tidying up after them.

He was so distracted by his thoughts on how strangely his day had went that he didn’t hear the front door opening and Joe stepping inside, groaning for the long hours spent driving around the city and glancing suspiciously at the lights still on.

“What the fuck?” he heard in a familiar voice, turning around to Joe’s stunned expression at finding him there, in the middle of the living room, with Hannah’s doll in his hands.

“Hi.” he said without smiling, but moving the doll’s head so that it was graciously bowing before the head of the household.

“Did they let you in?” asked Joe, still confused and on the verge of annoyance, pointing casually at his daughters’ room: “Hannah?”

“Ruth, actually.” he replied: “I thought you would be home. I didn’t know they were alone.” he added, trying not to colour his tone with (too much) reproach.

Joe was a working single parent.  
Of course David could understand what that meant only in theory.  
Of course he couldn’t be the one blaming a tired, overworked father of neglecting his kids.

“And you stayed.” concluded Joe, not a question.

David nodded: “I thought it’d be better to make sure they had dinner and went to bed. And didn’t let in other strangers.” he explained earnestly.

Joe scoffed, shaking his head: “Yeah, that’s… actually a good concern.” then he turned around, heading to the fridge to pick up his smokes, like the previous evening: “Did they? Eat and go to sleep?” he asked, casually, while lighting a cigarette and stepping toward the already half-open window.

“Yeah. With the expected amount of fuss and mess.” said David, placing Hannah’s doll on the coffee table.

“Anything I should be worried about?” said Joe, raising an eyebrow.

“Apart from your 10 years old reading ‘1984’? No, nothing to report.” joked David.

“She’s got a brain, that one.” muttered Joe, puffing out smoke.

“And an attitude to match.” commented quietly David, making the other laugh.

Then silence fell between them: Joe smoked calmly and David rested his hip against the kitchen counter, a reprise of the previous night.

“Joe, if you need anything…” started David, but got immediately interrupted.

“No.” stated the cab driver, ice-cold: “No, we don’t need anything. We get by just fine.” and he was pointedly looking out of the window.

“Except twice a week, depending on your shifts?” said David, knowing they were gonna have an argument, but realising there was no turning back.

“Why? Are you for hiring as a babysitter?” sneered Joe: “I can’t pay you.”

“That’s fine, I don’t need money…” sighed David.

“Then what are you after? Why are you suddenly here? Why looking for me in the first place?” asked Joe, losing his patience.

“I don’t know…” he replied and this time Joe didn’t shrug, but hit the windowsill with his fist in anger. The loud blow resounded in the room.

“Cut it!” he snarled, throwing a glance at David in which he could read how tired, irritated and confused Joe truly was. Could David really blame him for this sudden outburst?

“Something happened.” he blurted out, without thinking.

“_ What _ happened?” asked Joe, raising his voice.

David just shook his head and added: “I realised I was…” he paused: “And I needed to do this.” he tried again, really tried to elaborate, but he couldn’t find the right words. He gestured vaguely at the space between them, with a twitchy movement of his bruised arm.

“You’re not making any sense, Web.” said Joe, almost in disbelief.

“I know. I’m sorry.” he sighed.

“You’re _ sorry _.” repeated Joe and then he put out his finished cigarette, bending to massage his temples with his hands.

“Don’t make me say, please. I just felt like I had to. And I’m glad I did… come here.” he said calmly, taking one step closer to Joe, leaving the support of the kitchen counter: “I don’t mind helping, truly. I need something to do and you need someone to watch the kids every once in a while, right? Let me do it.” he proposed, calmly.

Joe raised his head, placing his hands on the windowsill and leaning his head against the cold panes, eyes closed.

“Joe?” he called softly.

“Fine. For some strange reasons I don’t understand and you won’t explain we’ve come to this point so I guess there’s no turning back. I need help with the girls, for a little while…” he admitted and David heard all the hurt, the disappointment in his voice: “And they said they like you. Mostly Hannah, but Ruth won’t mind.” he added.

“I like them too.” he smiled.

“Good. Then we’re settled.” concluded Joe, stepping aside to cross the kitchen, leaving the other behind: “What about now?” he asked then.

“What about it?” asked David, confused.

“Do you need to stay?” elaborated Joe, quickly glancing at the wall to point out the clock.

David looked at it and swore. He had completely lost track of time while preoccupied with the kids and waiting for Joe.

“How far do you live?” asked Joe.

“Santa Barbara.” he replied.

Joe’s eyes widened comically and he looked at David like he had grow a second head.

“It’s more than five hours away!” he exclaimed, then realised it was late and the girls were asleep, so he followed lowering his voice: “And you went back and forth in two days? Are you insane!?” he reinforced the message.

“I don’t mind driving.” said David: “Joe, you do it literally every day.” he argued.

“I drive around the city, for Christ’s sake!” he hissed, still bewildered.

David just shrugged.

“Well, it’s too late now to get back. Stay, I’ll get you some blankets.” suggested Joe, nodding toward the living room’s couch.

“I should go…” tried to decline David, but Joe threw his a sharp look giving no space for another argument.

“Guess you’ll have to fit in one of my t-shirts.” he pointed out, leaving David to reach his bedroom, successfully winning and ending the discussion.

David waited for him to come back, with a pile of blankets and an old t-shirt with the print of a bakery shop business on the front.

“Here. You can take care of it, right?” he asked, placing them on the coffee table and proceeding to fluff the couch pillows: “It’s not much, but you’ve slept in worse.”

“Haguenau?” asked David, crossing his arms with a knowing look.

“Hey, that was _ my _ bed. I was there first.” said Joe, unimpressed.

“I _ asked _ . You said _ nothing _ .” he retorted, amused by the memories their back and forth bickering was conjuring in his mind. Good and bad ones. Both, at the same time.  
Strange how he had missed even this…

“Whatever, at least I wasn’t the one sleeping on the floor. Goodnight, Web.” said Joe, almost yawning as he made to get back to his room and call it a night.

“Goodnight, Joe.” he said back, picking up the blankets to spread them on the couch.

He heard the bedroom door clicking as it closed and released a heavy sigh, sure he wasn’t going to fall asleep so fast: his mind had to slowly process the eventful evening and the surreal conversation he just had with Liebgott.

He started unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt, wincing due to his aching muscles after a whole day in motion. He divested slowly, checking his body carefully as soon as his undershirt was off and he could see the black and blue bruises and the stitched up cuts.

“Who did that to you?” came suddenly from behind him.

He turned alarmedly to the concerned expression of Joe, once again back in the middle of the corridor.

Joe seemed to notice his level of undress and spluttered something about forgetting to get a glass of water, stepping toward the kitchen and purposely looking away.

David didn’t really mind, at this point: “I did it to myself.” he simply stated, without following up with an explanation.

Joe scoffed: “You punched and kicked yourself in a dark alley and stole your own money?” he joked bitterly.

David just smiled, quickly changing into Joe’s t-shirt even if lifting his arms still caused him a lot of pain.

“I noticed your limp, yesterday.” said Joe, pouring himself a glass of water from the tap: “And the cut on your forehead.” he added: “I can guess this is part of what happened.”

“Yeah. And I asked you not to make me say.” he reminded Joe, while stepping out of his trousers and carefully folding them.

“Then I won’t ask.” concluded Joe, but his expression was still clouded, still preoccupied.

David sat down on the couch, watching the other slowly make his way back to his bedroom.

“I just…” he said, eyes down and glass in his left hand, stopping just before David could lose the sight of him: “I’m just… I guess relieved… you’re mostly okay.” he exhaled, carefully.

He stepped out then, not waiting for a reply.

David sighed again. A long night of great thinking indeed awaited.

He glanced down at Hannah’s doll, sat graciously on the coffee table, looking expectantly back at him.

At least for one night he wouldn’t be alone.


	3. October 3rd - October 8th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David gets a call from his younger brother. Then he takes the Liebgotts to the Steinhart Aquarium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as the first chapter, more notes at the end of the chapter.
> 
> If you have questions or you want to talk about this fic, come have a chat on Tumblr @brightly-painted-canvas.

**October 3rd.**

Insomnia was a wild beast sitting on David’s chest.

It breathed heavily down on his face and had it claws embedded in the soft skin of his neck, gripping for dear life every time he shifted.

He tossed and turned trying to find the right position not to ache too much, a way to shake insomnia away from him, a way to clear his head.

Instead, he thought.

Every time he couldn’t sleep at night he remembered that line from Shakespeare’s ‘Henry IV’, the one that goes ‘_ O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frightened thee _’.

Joe would make fun of him for knowing Shakespeare by heart. Hell, Joe had already made fun of him for so many other things that one more wouldn’t even hurt: ‘_ That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, and steep my senses in forgetfulness? _’ it continued and he sighed and rolled over, looking at Hannah’s doll on the table.

She was smiling placidly at him, like she knew the secret to slumber, but didn’t want to tell him. She wanted David to discover it himself. Like they were playing a game to which she already knew the tricks to win.

Turned on his side, he heard the ticking of the clock above the fridge a little more acutely.

There was a Hemingway quote about insomnia, too.

_ C’mon, brain _ urged David, closing his eyes and opening them again, feeling the prickles of tiredness behind his eyelids, _ c’mon, you knew it… you knew it… _

Instead, he thought about Joe again.

About that night when Chuck had been shot and they had stayed up after the culprit had been beaten up and brought to the MPs, smoking and talking about anything but the hilltop and Sisk’s gunshot.

Joe had explained to him in broad outlines the plot of ‘Dick Tracy’ and ‘Flash Gordon’ and all those other comics he liked.

_ To each their heroes _ , David had thought back then, looking at the red cherry of Joe’s umpteenth cigarette dancing in his dark dark eyes, _ we just have different ones. And different lives. _

_ It’s in ‘A Clean Well Lighted Place’ _ he thought then, turning on his back and repressing a low whimper for the sudden sting from one of the more resilient wounds.

He got interrupted in his cerebral quest for Hemingway by a sound coming from down the corridor. There was shuffling from the other side of the thin wall and then a door opening and the quick sound of bare feet on the carpet followed.

He decided to get up and investigate as soon as another door opened, creaking in the otherwise complete silence of the house.

The corridor was empty when he reached it, wobbling and limping for the bruises and his legs still not feeling like walking after having been reclined for what suddenly felt like hours.

Joe’s bedroom door was slightly ajar and David heard whispering coming from inside: he debated with himself if he should just ignore it and get back to the living room, when he heard soft sobs and Joe’s best reassuring voice telling: “Everything’s fine, Rou.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up, _ Ta _.” cried Ruth, hiccuping through the words.

“It’s alright. Wasn’t sleepin’ much. Wanna keep me company?” David heard Joe saying, voice steady but still sounding full of worry.

There was the shuffling of fabric as they probably were settling back in bed, under the covers.

David was about to turn around and reach his own bedroll when he heard Ruth’s hiccups break off and her distant, hesitant voice saying: “I miss her too.” like a reply to something Joe had said.

He left them, trying his best to shut up his mind and get some sleep himself.

Back to his cottage, after having cleaned up and rearranged the whole living room, David sat breathless on the sofa for endless minutes.

He felt too old to be doing so much physical activity: his healing body suddenly would stop cooperating and he would crash down on any available surface.

At 22 he had been able to run up and down Currahee and march for days from Toccoa to Atlanta. He had gone to war. At 39 he had difficulties lifting a pile of books above his head without bothering his fractured ribs.

A nearly-mortal boat accident didn’t happen to that many other 39-year-olds, but still. He felt heavy and awkward and he hated it.

He was also perfectly aware now that no matter how many times he looked through all his papers and books, his manuscript wouldn’t be there at home.

He needed to call the boathouse and ask for Tusitala.

Once his breath had stabilised and he was able to sit straight on his armchair, he gathered his will to be a responsible adult about everything that happened and made the call.

The phone rang four times against his right ear before a male voice answered with a ‘good morning’ and the company name. David introduced himself and explained the reason why he was suddenly calling, almost a months after the storm.

“We have a box of things found on the boat, yeah.” said the man, making it clear he had been personally involved in Tusitala’s recovery operations: “Let me be honest with you, most of the stuff has been thrown out already: food and the likes. There’s some papers, maps… it’s all waterlogged anyway, but we kept it for now. Together with the relic.” he explained.

The _ relic _.

David recoiled sightly at the word. Tusitala, his boat, the only companion he had had for years since he had left everything behind and pursued ‘a life at sea’, was now considered a waste, a wrecked useless thing.

And maybe he was one wrecked sailor too. One wasted author.

Could he even go back out there without his first and only boat? Without his notes and his instruments and the few things he bought back then with his money, the savings from military paychecks and sold articles, the only few things he could from the very start call his own and his own only?

“Mister Webster? Are you still there?” called the interlocutor over the phone, waking him up from the pit of thoughts in which he had fallen.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll come by in a few days to check what’s left and to… let you know how to dispose of the rest.” he said, the words tasting sour on his tongue.

He said his goodbyes and hung up.

Some time later, his phone rang again.

Aida, who had come in from the backdoor once David had decided to get out on the porch for a breath of fresh salty air, jumped and huffed at the device.

“It’s just the phone, you silly old thing.” laughed fondly David, lifting the receiver expecting it to be the boathouse clerk again, or maybe even his doctor from the hospital.

Instead, it was his brother John.

“Hey, Ken…” he began weakly, once he heard David’s relaxed and oblivious ‘hello?’: “Am I… interrupting something?” he asked cautiously.

David looked around at the empty house, his eyes falling on the form of the cat cleaning her paws without a care in the world, sat half-curled up on the kitchen floor.

“No, you can talk freely.” he smirked, adding: “This is a safe line, the Russians won’t hear you.”

“Perfect. I mean… ha, very funny.” laughed nervously his younger brother: “You’re not writing about Cuba again, right?” he asked then, to make sure.

“I’m not writing about anything at the moment, John.” sighed David.

“Good. Or, not… actually. That’s why I’m calling.” stuttered once again his brother: “And… how are you?” he asked, backtracking a little, like he thought again at how he had wanted the conversation to go and realised he had missed a point on his mental checklist.

“I’m fine, John. Healing slowly and not thinking about buying another boat and leaving the mainland forever.” he joked, trying to ease the tense mood coming from the other end of the phone.

“Perfect. I… I am actually back home from DC, for a while.” started again John, and David already knew everything he needed to know about this unexpected conversation.

He sighed silently, massaging his temples slowly in a rotating movement with his thumb and index finger as his brother continued: “And I met with a few friends last night, for a drink. One friend of mine, you see, he works for Times now.” he bravely soldiered on, despite his voice still wavering from the uncertainty of how his big brother was going to take the topic at hand: “Think you’d like to… I don’t know, maybe call him? See if he has something for you?” he proposed.

“I have a job.” replied David, abruptly.

“Oh. But you said…” tried to argue his brother.

“I’m not writing _ at the moment _, John. I will as soon as I get assigned an article.” he explained calmly.

“Okay. Well, if you…” but David felt like interrupting him again.

“You can tell your friend _ and our parents _ that I’m fine on my own and I won’t come back. Not for a job, not to ‘visiting family’ and not for anything else. I’ll be staying here or in San Francisco or wherever I end up going from now on, but the only way you’re gonna get me back to NYC will be in a casket. Clear?” he said, keeping his tone low and steady, but firm enough that John stayed perfectly silent until he was done.

“Crystal. I guess the only way I’ll have to see you again is booking a flight for the West Coast, then.” said John and David couldn’t really miss the slightly relieved tone his voice had taken.

“Yeah, you do that. With wife and kids, too. They’d love the ocean here.” he suggested.

“Fine. Take care, Ken.” sighed his brother, fondly and even a bit heartfelt.

“You too, Johnny. Kiss mother for me.” he added, feeling a little tired of always having to fight with his whole family.

“Will do. Call me whenever.” said John, sincerely.

“Yeah.” he replied, just as earnestly.

_ Joe sits heavily down on his cot, their legs bouncing together and settling against one another like there’s no need for personal space when it’s this cold. When they’ve come this far. _

_ “Who wrote this time.” he phrases it like it doesn’t sound like a question, like he isn’t interested in hearing the answer. _

_ “My younger brother. He’s joining the paratroopers.” he explains anyway, keeping it simple in case Joe wasn’t really trying to make small conversation. _

_ “Fuck,” exhales Joe with a puff of smoke: “Another Webster goin’ at the Krauts? Can’t see how we lose the war with _ that _ on the table.” jokes Joe, a lit cigarette already between his curled up lips. _

_ He just scoffs, lacking all admonishment. _

_ Joe’s leg against his starts jolting rhythmically, nervously. _

_ “Haven’t got any brother in service myself. Made sure they didn’t have to.” says Joe after a pause. He sometimes likes to give free informations that David hasn’t asked about. _

_ He knows Joe is the older male of seven children. Joe doesn’t talk much about his family, but it’s known between the guys in Easy Company that he has chosen to deploy with the paratroopers to be able to sustain his family back home more than for the reason of ‘killing as many Nazis as possible’ he usually uses when asked. _

_ “You think he’s doing it to emulate me?” he asks softly, his voice a barely audible whisper. _

_ But Joe is so close their body are making contact. He feels him shrug, exhale another puff of smoke: “I don’t know how you rich boys’ head work, Web.” and then he asks: “Does he like you much?” _

_ “We get along.” he replies, unsure of how else to reply to such a question. John is his brother. It’d be awful if they didn’t like each other… _

_ Joe is looking at him with an amused expression, like he’s trying to decipher if David is keeping something from him. _

_ “I don’t even get why you are here in the first place.” admits then Joe, reaching up to look directly in his eyes. _

_ The light is so low that he can’t distinguish his dark irises from the pupils. With his pale skin and the smoke still dancing around his mouth he looks almost ethereal, like a dangerous but fascinating creature in fantasy books. _

_ He keeps silent. Someone else joins them inside the tent and the topic changes. _

**October 8th.**

Hannah was already wearing her coat when she opened the front door and jumped easily in David’s arms.

“We’re gonna see sharks!” she exclaimed excitedly, squirming so hard it took all of David’s strength not to drop her.

“Scarf and hat, Hannah! Or we’re staying home.” called from along the corridor Joe, busy helping Ruth in her coat.

“_ Can _ we stay home, _ ta _? Please?” whined the older child, looking the exact opposite of her euphoric sister.

Joe sighed and sent an exasperated glance at David, who had reached the corridor to help Hannah wear her pink scarf and hat.

“It’ll be fun, Rou.” tried David, catching the girl’s attention to give Joe time to wear his own jacket.

Ruth just sent him a glare and huffed, while Hannah beside her jumped up and down on her heels, impatiently.

They were outside the house before either girls could say anything else.

The four of them took the public transport to get to the Steinhart Aquarium David had told Hannah about and she had insisted to be taken to since.

The younger kept close to David for the whole journey, dutifully holding his hand while chatting about this and that all the time, like all kids her age.

Ruth was instead glued to her father: a bit too old to hold his hand she sat beside him, nose in her book and brows furrowed like she was still silently brooding. She sometimes sent furtive looks at her little sister, making it obvious she was keeping an eye on her and hating on her excess of enthusiasm.

David left her to her devices and submerged himself in the colourful and imaginary world of a 3-years-old: everything was so extraordinary to Hannah, from the people they met on the streets to the ticket booth at the entrance of the aquarium.

“Your daughter doesn’t pay if she’s younger than five.” said with a red lipsticked smile the lady at the desk, waking David from his mind-of-a-children-induced stupor.

David blinked at her and gaped widely once he realised she was talking about Hannah.

“Davie is not my dad. _ Tatti _is.” replied Hannah without missing a beat, pointing at Joe right beside them, with Ruth clung to his arm.

Joe looked scandalised and mortally offended, to the point that David was relieved he wasn’t in the aquarium employee’s shoes right at that moment.

“Oh. Sorry, my bad.” said the lady, sending an apologetic and embarrassed look at the two adults in front of her: “How old are you, darling?” she asked, trying to recover.

“I’m three and a half! My name is Hannah, what’s yours?” asked politely Hannah, her tiny hands gripping the desk’s edge in order to stay balanced on her tippy toes, looking at the lady behind the glass.

David put a hand on her back, to prevent her from tripping backward.

“I’m Jen. Nice to meet you.” said the woman, while quickly giving David their three tickets.

He dutifully payed for them and guided the group away from the booth. Hannah just replied with a chirping ‘nice to meet you too’ and beamed behind her shoulder at the lady all the while their small group headed toward the aquarium’s entrance.

From then on, she took leadership and guided the four of them around the aquarium, no matter if it was the first time she had stepped foot inside.

David was astounded and admired: she was a force of nature, with infinite curiosity and eyes wide open on the world surrounding her.

She had the best questions, too.

“Where do they sleep, Davie?” she asked, peering inside the tank of a school of blue tangs. “Do they miss the ocean?” she mumbled pensively at the turtles exposition. “How can they understand each other? Do they all speak fish English?” she wondered as they crossed the hall to reach the cetacean wing.

He tried to reply as best as he could, while Joe and Ruth tagged along, the first listening closely and blatantly smirking at some of Hannah’s antics, the second looking like a fish out of water, pun intended.

Ruth hadn’t been thrilled before and surely wasn’t enthusiastic then, but she seemed able to entertain herself with the information signs on the walls, stopping to read each one of them to better understand the aquarium’s history and each animal’s facts written there.

David waited until Joe had to take Hannah to the toilet before approaching her, beginning with a cautious: “They have books at the shop about this, if you’re interested.”

She turned away from a plaque about the natural habitat of belugas and asked: “Do you have them already?”

“I may have some, yes…” he considered.

“Then can I borrow them?” she asked bluntly.

“Sure. What are you interested in?” he inquired.

“Everything.” she replied, plain and simple. Then she returned her gaze to the plaque: “I read about everything. I love to read.” she added.

David smiled, turning around to notice if Joe and Hannah were back already. He noticed them making their way through the small crowd of visitors towards them and gently nudged Ruth’s shoulder with his elbow: “You know your father once told me he loves to read too.” he said.

“He only really reads comics. And the newspaper.” she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, newspapers are okay. I write on those.” he protested without much heat.

“So? That makes you a journalist, not a writer.” she shrugged, looking back at him with a small smile of challenge: “I’m gonna be a writer.” she declared, proudly.

David hesitated just a second too long, losing his chance to reply before he got attacked by Hannah, colliding against his legs while screaming: “Let’s go see sharks now!”

“_Oof!_” he hissed, bending over not to lose his balance and grabbing at Hannah’s sweater so that she didn’t slip and fall too: “Not so hard, Annie!” he exclaimed.

“Hannah!” reprimanded her his father, glaring at the little girl sternly: “Did she hurt you?” he asked then, looking David in the eyes with a strangely preoccupied expression.

“It’s fine, she’s just very enthusiastic…” he replied, noticing Ruth huffing and moving closer to her father, while Hannah took David’s hand and started pulling him toward the aquarium’s wing they still had to explore.

“They’re just like mine!” declared Hannah once they were all in front of the sharks’ tank.

“They have far more teeth…” commented Joe under his breath, making Ruth snicker and David hide his mirth behind his hand.

“Do they look like yours too, Davie?” asked Hannah, completely unaware of the general hilarity she had caused.

“Some.” he nodded: “Not the ones I swam with.” he specified.

“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Joe, frowning. Hannah and Ruth were both pressed against the glass of the tank, finally both equally fascinated with the exemplars of sea predators to ignore the two adults accompanying them.

“What I said. I swam with a different specie of sharks.” blinked David, confused.

“You swam with _ sharks _ !? _ Are you insa- _… wait, don’t answer that.” scoffed Joe, suddenly lowering his voice and pinching the bridge of his nose to calm himself: “The fuck you on about sharks, Web?” he asked then, unable to stop himself.

“I did a lot of researches before that happened. I spent many years studying sharks before starting to catch them and…” he tried to explain, getting interrupted by Joe’s mounting anger.

“You _ fish them up _ too!?” he exploded, making some heads around them turn and Ruth lift her gaze in a puzzled expression.

“I don’t kill them, Joe. It’s just for research.” he explained, offended by the subtle insinuation he thought he had heard in Joe’s tone.

“Oh, sorry, my bad. Like _ their _ lives is the thing I should be worried about!” scoffed Joe, looking halfway between bewildered and exasperated.

“Why should you be worried in the first place?” asked then David, already tired of arguing.

Joe sent him an incredulous look, then slowly deflated: “Right. Why should I.” he said, shrugging but still looking too pissed off to drop it completely.

“I wanna read the description, _ ta _ .” interjected Ruth, catching their attention: “ _ Anakhenu yekholim lalekhett? _” she asked, leaving Hannah’s side to nudge her father in the plaque’s direction.

“Sure, Rou.” he said, accompanying her without even a second glance to David, who just stood there mulling over their conversation while watching over Hannah, sat on the floor with her gaze turned up, fascinated by the dance of the sharks in the water.

_ What does he mean? _ he asked himself, _ why would he be angry about sharks, of all the things? _

“I wanna see them in the sea, too.” sighed dreamily Hannah, diverting his attention from his thoughts.

David thought of Tusitala, of the storm, of his book.

“Sorry, Annie. This is the closest we’re gonna get to them for a long while, I’m afraid.” he muttered, holding a whimper of pain as he carefully crouched down to reach her level.

She leant closer and rested her head on his bent knee, still looking up at the slowly, quietly swimming Leopard and Spiny Dogfish Sharks.

_ I’m staying on land for now _ , he repeated like a mantra in his head, following the rhythm of the animals’ long tails swinging in the water, _ I’m more of a journalist than a writer anyway _, he thought, feeling a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

Hannah’s tiny hand gripped the seam of his trousers, subconsciously seeking support.

He smiled secretly to himself.

On their way back to Joe’s, after walking for a bit in the aquarium area and letting the girls get ice cream for dinner, they took the cable car.

At first it was a bit crowded, so they had to sit on opposite sides of the benches.

David sat in front of Joe, who had Hannah curled in his arms and Ruth on his right side, once again completely absorbed in her readings.

After a few stops, Hannah was already sleeping calmly on her father’s shoulder, surely drained out by the intense afternoon of wonders and discoveries.

Joe had his legs parted to accommodate her smaller knees, one arm around her back and the opposite hand on her head, protectively keeping her closer.

Ruth had her left little finger hooked in one of her father’s jacket loops.

The car swayed and they swayed with it, wobbling and looking like a moving painting, their backs reflected on the glass behind them, on the city landscape flowing outside. The light of the sun was becoming orange and oblique, bathing Joe and Ruth’s dark hair in fiery light and making their eyes shine with gold.

David stood there looking, captivated, still as a rock even as Joe caught his gaze and quickly looked away.

_ I love him _, he was screaming inside, loud and clear.

He thought he had been so stupid not to notice before. Not to realise it so long ago: how in love with Joseph D. Liebgott he was. How in love with him he always had been.

He felt something slowly awakening inside of him, as he repeated those words over and over, an inner, silent turmoil.

And suddenly everything made sense.

_ It’s why I saw him at the bottom of the ocean. _

_ It’s why he woke me up. _

_ It’s why I came here... _

_ Not because but why _ , he continued. _ I must have known what I needed to start healing _.

He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head backward, against the glass window of the cable car, rattling with the movement.

_ They sit together on the edge of the boat, their tangled legs and feet hanging off toward the bluest peace of the waves. _

_ They sway gently with the undertow, the slosh of water singing with the sound of ropes sliding, metal clinking. The sun is slowly descending. _

_ Joe is in his arms, his back against his chest. His soft dark hair smells of him and of the sea and he kisses his head, bowing to gently, playfully nip at the tip of his ear. _

_ Joe laughs deep from his belly, tries to swat him away but they are too close, intertwined. _

_ “I still don’t see what the whole fuss is about.” he comments, trying to sound casual. _

_ The few clothes they are wearing are covered in salt and sand, still a bit humid. _

_ “Yeah?” he asks, continuing his quest downward to kiss Joe’s neck, his collarbone, the back of his shoulder: “And yet you agreed to come with me.” he points out, mirth in his voice, between butterfly kisses on pale, warm skin. _

_ Joe hums and he can feels it reverberating against his chest. _

_ They’re quiet, embracing and looking at the blue line of the horizon in front of them, infinite and vast. _

_ He is in love. _

\---

**Notes:**

I wanted Web's epiphany to come soon in the story, but I hope it felt in the right moment. He's starting to feel a lot of affection for the girls too, but his feelings toward Joe needed a big breakthrough.  
I don't know much about San Francisco in the 60s, but I made as many researches as possible about the aquariums open at that time and what kind of fishes there could be there. I didn't know belugas were first described in 1776, for example!  
What I wrote about John Webster is all fictional (I think) except for the fact that he joined the paratroopers during the war.  
“_Anakhenu yekholim lalekhett?_” should mean "Can we go?" in Hebrew (I mentioned in Chapter 1 the kids knew Yiddish but then wrote a sentence in Hebrew. I've corrected that, sorry for the mistake).

I don't know if anyone is still reading this fic, but if you are: carry on. I have much more planned and I'm not finished with this so please have faith! :)


	4. October 10th - October 11th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David gets a haircut. Then he discovers more about Joe's life after the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as the first chapter, more notes at the end of the chapter.
> 
> If you have questions or you want to talk about this fic, come have a chat on Tumblr @brightly-painted-canvas.

**October 10th.**

David found it easier to concentrate on writing in Joe’s apartment.

One day he took his typewriter and notes with him and wrote his articles on Joe’s kitchen table while Hannah had her afternoon nap. Or he sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table while she played with her dolls on the carpet.

She was the only distraction and quite a pleasant one: he had managed to finish three articles in a week in her company and the newspaper editor he worked with was pleased by his productive comeback.

Sometimes Hannah liked to help him by sliding the spacer every time he filled a line on paper, some other time she sat next to him chatting endlessly about things she liked and thought about, while doodling things on a white notebook page David provided her.

“This is you swimming with sharks.” she said at some point one day, pointing at her latest art with pride: “And this is  _ tatti _ , me and Rou on a boat.” she followed, showing every blotch of ink she had splashed on the paper.

David kept that drawing and every other drawing she made between the pages of his notebook.

On the 10th of October, Joe came home from his shift and took out his barber kit, announcing David needed a haircut.

“How long has it been since last time? You look like a tramp.” he explained bluntly, forcing David on a chair in front of the sink to rinse his long locks of chestnut hair: “You’re tanned, scarred and your beard is out of control.” he reinforced the message, disgruntled.

“I want a haircut too,  _ tatti _ .” mumbled Hannah from the bathroom’s door, looking at her father expertly combing David’s wet hair, water drops falling all over the tiles floor and the towel he was forced to wear over his shoulders.

“Later, monkey.” he said calmly, close to David’s ear: “How do you want ‘em, Web?” he asked, looking at their reflection in the mirror.

They were both turned toward it now, Joe’s hands resting on David’s shoulder as he carefully studied the length and shape of his wet hair.

David kept silent, slightly shaking his head to signal that he didn’t know or care.

Joe sighed: “I’m trying to remember how you used to wear it during the war. It didn’t look half bad, then.” he pointed out.

“You notice those things, don’t you.” he commented, half smirking.

“Yeah. Professional eye. I used to cut Major Winters’ hair back in Aldbourne.” he said, like David might not know. He did.

Joe had, in fact, already cut David’s hair once before, while they were in Austria.

One day they had found a closed down barber shop and Winters had personally asked Joe to get inside and pick the things he needed to cut the officers’ hair. While they were in there, a kid from the village had approached the group and demanded that Joe let him help with sweeping the floor and polishing the tools. Winters had like the boy’s attitude and agreed to let him stay. After Joe had finished with the Major and a few other officers’ hair, some of the Easy men had begged Joe for a cut, after so long without a fresh one.

David had been one of the last, not having wanted to bother Joe with extra work, but giving in after ‘The Barber’ had pestered him about the scruffy state of his curly brown locks and his stubbles.

He had immensely liked the strangely intimate feeling of having Joe’s fingers running through his hair, his eyes on him, his body heat so close in the limited space around the barber shop chair.

They hadn’t talked much, refusing to make small conversation: they had simply shared those moments, like many others during those summer days, each on their own account, each on their business and conviction.

“What’s with you and your ancient fear of barbers?” asked amusedly Joe, who had started cutting his hair in swift, sure snaps of his professional scissors while David was busy remembering the past.

“I just hadn’t had the occasion to visit one, lately.” he said, and it was true.

“No barber shops in Santa Barbara?” asked Joe, unimpressed and sounding like he was somehow fishing for informations, asking casually in order to know something else.

David almost replied sincerely. Almost.

“I’ve just been busy.” he explained, laconically.

Joe hummed, unconvinced. He was looking attentively at his handiwork, resisting even the slightest glance at the mirror, not to catch David’s fixed stare on him.

From near the door, Hannah sighed dramatically like she was jealous of his father’s attention all concentrated on David instead of her.

“I’m a bit afraid, Annie.” said David, blatantly lying in order to distract her: “Do you think your dad is gonna cut my ear by mistake?” he asked, faking great concernment.

“He’s not gonna.  _ Tatti _ is very good!” she exclaimed, but then she lowered her voice: “You shouldn’t be afraid.” like she was considering the best way to comfort him.

Then she disappeared from her spot near the door, probably distracted by some thought about her games and dolls, leaving David at Joe’s mercy.

They fell into a somehow tense silence, Joe hyper-concentrated on his task while David observed their reflections, his appearance slowly being modified by the precise movements of the barber, swinging back and forth from his left side to his right.

“I used to work in a barber shop after the war.” said Joe out of the blue, his voice a steady rumble from his chest and throat, so close to David that he could feel them tremble: “Before… Ruth and Hannah” he specified.

“What happened?” asked David, closing his eyes briefly to visualize it: a small one-window shop on a busy street, three or four seats and two chairs by the window for waiting customers. The white capes and the white towels, the shining silver of scissors and razors.   
Joe smoking outside, underneath the rotating blue, red and white pole, leaning his back against the brick wall of the building, enjoying the last rays of pale sun shining white and gold over his skin. Relaxed and handsome.

“Missus got pregnant, owner moved to Oregon and closed the shop. Had to provide for the family so I went back to the cab company.” explained like a military report Joe, his tone void of any emotion.

David took a long pause, before saying: “You preferred it there.” and it wasn’t a question.

Joe tensed, his sharp jaw tightening as he tried not to let his emotions morph his expression into something resentful and hurt. He hummed, continuing his job in resigned silence.

“You should go back to cutting hair, Joe.” he suggested after a while, filling the void left by Joe’s hard silence.

“Shut up, Web. You move your head when you talk.” he whispered back in retaliation, a bitten order like the ones he used to give those wet-behind-the-ear replacements they were all sick of dealing with during their last months in Europe.

David just resolved to look at Joe’s reflection, moving from his freshly cut and still damp mop of brown curls to his overgrown beard, mixing the shaving soap in circular motions with his own brush, coming closer to seemingly inspect David’s upper lip, but all the while placing one finger under his chin, pushing upward to close David’s perpetually open mouth.

“No wonder you like fishes. You look like one most of the time.” he commented, smirking and abruptly changing the mood.

David refused to let his cheeks flush. He closed his eyes again, feeling Joe too close now, his presence unbearable and suffocating.

Hannah came back after a while, carrying Tooth with her. She placed it on David’s lap and explained: “You can’t be afraid now that he’s protecting you.”

“You’re right, I feel better already.” he agreed, risking a big smile in her direction while Joe was distracted with cleaning the razor from the shaving foam.

She smiled back, relieved and happy of being of help, sitting down on the floor to be able to stay close and keep watch over the two adults.

**October 11th.**

David was on his way back from the newspaper’s office when he decided he could stop by Ruth’s school and pick her up.

He waited for the last bell a few feet from the entrance, under the shade of a tree, looking curiously at groups of mothers talking with each others about their kids.

Once said kids were flooding out of the school’s gates, filling the pavement with laughters and shouts, David scanned the crowd to pick out Ruth’s perpetual scowl and long braids of dark hair.

She appeared after a few minutes, head bowed and eyes fixed on the pavement, pushing through to escape the mass of agitated children.

Three or four kids were with her, laughing and slightly pushing her shoulders, playfully looking, but also slightly too insistent in their attentions. Ruth didn’t seem to appreciate being under the spotlight so suddenly, trying to dodge their touches and distance herself from them.

David didn’t like what he was seeing. He held his hand high, ignoring the sting of pain from his chest and muscles, and called: “Ruth!” loud enough to be heard by her and her peers, as well as some of the parents.

She saw him immediately and her expression changed from surprised to enraged in the split of a second: she didn’t look pleased in the least to see him there.

She sprinted in his direction, frowning and huffing, successfully leaving the other kids behind just to get closer to David with her hands already balled into fists.

He easily blocked her punches as she grunted in rage, her tiny fists closed inside David’s much larger hands.

“What’s wrong!?” he asked, amused to the point of sounding like he was almost laughing, taking a step back to block her impact and keep her from squirm out of his grip.

“You shouldn’t be here, you  _ manyak _ !” she shouted, and David didn’t know what that meant but surely it hadn’t sound nice: “Let me go!” she demanded vehemently, starting to even kick at his legs.

He obeyed, letting go of her hands: she turned around and started quickly walking away, clearly not wanting David to follow.

He did anyway, his long strides not letting her get much far. But as he took a curious glance at her, a confused question already on his lips, he realised that her eyes were wet and she was trying hard to contain her sobs.

“Ruth?” called a female voice behind them, stopping their fast pace as they both turned around to see a young woman looking concernedly at Ruth and then sternly at David, asking: “Who is this man? Is he bothering you?”

Before David had any chance to reply, Ruth said: “He’s my uncle, Mrs. Dunham. Good day.” and, turning around to take his hand in hers, she ordered: “Let’s go, David.” with a resolute expression, her tears already two dried and forgotten stripes on her pale face.

“Good day, ma’am.” he said to the woman, following Ruth meekly and still confused.

They stopped a few blocks from the school, in front of the district library’s entrance.

“What’s going on, Rou?” asked then David, letting go of her hand the moment she started tugging at it to be released. She shrugged, eyes still fixed on the pavement and shoulders slouched in defeat.

David had to wait a few moments before she was sighing and quietly whispering an almost inaudible: “Never come pick me up again, please.”

“Why is that?” he asked again, bending slightly to be able to hear her mumbling so softly in the middle of a busy street.

She shook her head, then pointed to the library: “Can we go in?” she asked, strangely politely.

David nodded and followed her inside: it wasn’t a big building or a very supplied library, but it had two floors of bookshelves and it took them some time to wander around the aisles aimlessly, Ruth leading the way and David following closely.

It was clear that Ruth was trying to cure her anxiety and forget what had caused it by being surrounded by what she liked, in a familiar environment.

“Mrs. Dunham thought you were a bad guy.” she said, her first words in a while, when they stopped at the adventure section of the fiction aisle. She was smirking while she added: “Must be the scars.”

David agreed: “They’re much more visible now without the long hair and beard, right? Hard not to notice and wonder.” he commented. He didn’t mind his appearance one bit. He never had, and things weren’t going to change now that he had the marks of his mistakes in full display on his skin.

He had seen some people have it much, much worse.

Ruth just nodded, saying: “You’re still handsome, though. Don’t worry.” in passing, while her pointing finger scrolled over the spines of old books.

David suddenly remembered her father, almost twenty years before, catching David’s lost stare directed at the round, angry red scar on his neck and saying, sarcastically while sucking on the filter of their last cigarette before dusk: ‘at least I’m still a handsome son of a gun, ain’t I?’. He had been.

Ruth had found a book she was interested in, picking it from the shelf to read the first page, holding it in her hands.

David just stood there by her side, studying her movements and her posture, trying to remember a time when he was her age and he used to find the same kind of shelter and solace inside public libraries in big chaotic New York.

“Mom died in a car accident.” said Ruth suddenly, her voice low and scared, but still audible in the silence of the empty space surrounding them: “She was coming to pick me up and she was hit…” Ruth choked on her words, closing her eyes to force herself not to cry.

David, feeling the urge to try and comfort her, put his hand on her shoulder and waited patiently, unsure what else he was supposed to do.

“That’s why  _ ta _ hates driving now. And why no one should ever pick me up from school. Understood?” she finished, a big wet sigh following her last words, looking up at David with a determined expression and red rimmed eyes.

“Of course.” he said, still a bit shocked from the informations just gathered.

“Promise?” she asked and David thought,  _ why is she so concerned? What does she fear could happen to me? Why try to protect  _ me _ ? _

“Promise, David.” she ordered, distracting him from his swirling thoughts.

“I promise, Rou. No accidents.” he said solemnly, thinking:  _ no more, at least _ .

_ Why is it so easy to promise to the 10-years-old daughter of a man I once knew the same thing my own siblings have tried to make me swear to for months? _

“I want this.” she declared then, deeming the conversation closed. She took the book under her arm and proceeded to the front desk, leaving David slightly behind, dealing with questions and emotions he wasn’t familiar with and didn’t have the time and mind to unravel at the moment.

Halfway through their detour around town, David not having much else to do and Ruth wanting to delay going back home to do her homework, the little girl said: “I know a place, follow me.” and lead them to a small tobacconist right on the corner of a narrow street.

David didn’t have the time to stop her outside to ask why they were there before she sprinted inside, clearly knowing the place well.

He followed right after, looking around the tiny store which smelled intensely of tobacco and the burnt insides of pipes.

“Look who’s here!” exclaimed a cheerful male voice from behind the counter, sounding somehow familiar to David, as the owner circled the table slowly, smiling at Ruth genuinely, like she was a niece or the daughter of an old friend...

“Sergeant Grant?!” exclaimed, David, suddenly realising who the man was.

Chuck’s earnest blue gaze moved from Ruth to David and his face morphed in a surprised expression, before he too, raised his voice in disbelief: “Webster!”

“I can’t believe… it’s so good to see you, sir!” blabbed David, looking around once again to take in what looked like Chuck’s life now: a cozy tobacco stall in the middle of San Francisco.

The man looked good, too: David didn’t even want to remember the last time he had seen him, before the end of the war. Here before him stood a healed man, smiling with shining eyes and only one visible scar by the left side of his face to remind what Sergeant Grant had gone through during the war.

“None of that, Web, we’re off duty now. It’s Chuck for everyone around here.” said the Sergeant, graciously dismissing the ‘sir’ title: “Or Charles, if you’re my wife or my mother.”

“I’m neither, thank God!” David couldn’t stop from remarking, making both of them laugh before they hugged as a long awaited salute.

“What are you doing around here with none other but Ruth Liebgott, uh?” asked Chuck, his voice still tinted with wonder: “And what happened to your face…? Have you…?” but David couldn’t let him continue on that.

“I recently reconnected with some old friends.” he simply said, shrugging a little.

“He visits often.” commented Ruth, from the stool she had found and instantly occupied, perched on it like a weird imitation of a parrot.

“Nice to know, nice to know.” repeated Chuck, nodding slowly: “They might need someone around, uh.” he mumbled, like he was thinking out loud. “You been here for a while?” he asked then.

“I’ve been living in California for a few years, yeah. I have work in San Francisco now, so…” he explained, casually.

They chatted for a while, lightly and easily like they were back there, twenty years younger and scarless, sharing a smoke or a pint of English beer in Aldbourne.

Out of all Easy men and NCOs, David had always appreciated Charles Grant the most: he was always kind and considerate, never out of step and perfectly fair with all his fellows. He was also one of the least resentful ones when David rejoined the company at Haguenau, quickly falling back into a good natured disposition after the fateful night of the patrol.

David also knew Joe had always been close to Chuck, as a fellow Californian man and as a natural counterweight of his fiery, rough temperament. He remembered the night of the shooting, the witch hunt that followed, the late night hours chain smoking outside the gym turned infirmary and the blood stains on Joe’s knuckles.

The fire dancing in his desperate angry eyes.

“Before I forget: Rou!” called suddenly Chuck, turning around to look at the little girl who was by then carelessly reading her book: “I have something for your old man, move so I can grab it for you.” he instructed and she graciously jumped down from the stool, moving to stand next to David.

Chuck turned back around the counter to pick up a few cartons of something that looked like a special brand of Lucky Strikes. David noticed then that he moved slower and he almost couldn't use his left arm, but still could easily manage alone around his shop.

“Here. He never stops by to pick them up, that silly one.” he sighed, still smiling kindly.

“We’ll make sure to remind him to step by soon then, right Rou?” said David, patting encouragingly the girls’ back.

“ _ Ta _ ’s very busy, uncle Chuck.” she said, trying her best to justify her father.

“I know, Ruth. It’s fine, I’ll call when I miss him too much.” said the Sergeant with a low chuckle, bending his back slightly to talk directly to her, like he wanted to share a secret: “Take good care of your dad and Hannah and also this one, okay?” he asked, lifting his gaze to send a sly smile to David.

Ruth simply nodded, understanding. She kissed Chuck’s cheek in goodbye and stepped outside, leaving the two adults alone for one last farewell.

“Be careful with Joe, alright? He’s changed a lot in the past two years, more than we can comprehend I’m afraid.” said Chuck, lingering upon their handshake to share his thoughts: “I’m glad he has the girls. And you, now.” he concluded.

“I’m no one. Just a passerby.” replied David, not sure he had completely understood the Sergeant’s words.

“We’ll see. Good day, buddy.” greeted Chuck, with a slow nod of his head.

David thought about the strange meeting for the whole day.

After dinner, as he was washing the dishes while Joe smoked from the kitchen window, he decided to tell him about the encounter.

“Did he seem surprised to see you?” asked Joe suddenly, while David was still describing his first impressions of Chuck’s tobacco shop.

“A lot. I guess it’s hard to imagine me around here when all you guys constantly brought up about me was New York and Harvard.” he commented, pensively.

Joe hummed and puffed some smoke out of the window, a chill breeze immediately mixing with it, dragging and dispersing it against the black San Francisco night sky.

“He said he has kept in touch with some of the other guys. Surprisingly enough, the one who writes the most seems to be Captain Speirs.” said David, keeping a light tone in his voice.

Joe hummed again, this time looking directly at David’s back. He could feel his stare and he thought about what that could mean, if he was about to tell him ‘of course they’re still close, after everything that Speirs went through to save his life’ or if he was just as amused by this notion as David was.

“Did you know they organised a few reunions? Have you ever gone?” he asked after having established that Joe wasn’t gonna add his personal views over the previous topic.

“I knew, but I never went.” he replied, flatly: “Have you?” he asked then, like he couldn’t already guess the most plausible reply.

“No.” he said, while soaping up yet another plate: “I was never invited.” he clarified.

He risked a glance behind his back to catch Joe’s suddenly confused expression: “Of course you were, everyone was…” he mumbled.

David shrugged: “I wasn’t. But that’s okay…”

Joe interrupted him, insisting as he extinguished his finished cigarette: “Maybe they sent the invite to your old Boston address?” he suggested.

“I doubt that.” he sighed, lacking any malice. He knew that couldn’t be possible. No one had known his college’s dorm room address, not even the VA. He had registered for war with his parent’s house number, just in case. No invitations were sent to New York either.

Joe shook his head, stepping closer: “You were Easy too.” he pointed out.

A pause, in which David pulled the sink’s plug to let the soapy water drain: “I never was Easy, Joe.” he said calmly, turning on the tap to rinse the dishes.

“Why’d you say that?” asked again Joe, and this time he wasn’t as placid. He was right by David’s side now, his hip resting against the kitchen counter so he was facing David’s left side: “Why do you always do that: isolate yourself, putting yourself out and letting yourself down before anyone else has the chance to prove you right or wrong?” he asked, sounding almost concerned.

David kept on cleaning the dishes and piling them on the counter by Joe’s side, without looking up or at him: “Self defense, maybe?” he said after a while.

Joe seemed to hesitate for a while, maybe looking for the right words.  For the first time since David had known him, he was weighting his own thoughts trying to find something to say, to express himself.

“You can’t keep shying away from everything, you know… you live in a society.” he said after a while. His voice had changed tone again, back to being calm and almost unaffected despite the meaning of his words: “You mean something to some people.” he added.

Something in David’s guts twisted painfully and he lost his breath. He felt like drowning, like he needed to resurface and ask for more, know more.

He turned off the tap and picked up the dishcloth to dry his hands and the dinnerware.

Joe moved quickly in the sudden silence of the kitchen, now void of the continuous dash and splashes of water: he picked the cloth from David’s grip and in the same movement he took his right hand, forcing David’s body to twist in his direction.

He seemed to study it, front and back, both their eyes fixed on David’s wet and cold hand cupped in Joe’s skinnier, warmer one.

“What’s this?” he asked after a few breaths, the tip of his fingers resting against one of the most visible little scars covering David’s skin.

“Mostly sailing” he replied, quietly in almost a whisper.

Joe chuckled, slightly dissipating the tension: “When did that become a thing?” he asked and he sounded curious, non-judgemental.

“It was always a thing.” he said and they both raised their heads. Their eyes met in that moment: “I guess it worsened when I realised it could isolate me even better from the people I mean something to.” he explained in one single breath, looking and Joe’s expression change with the realisation of what he was confessing.

Joe opened his mouth to say something, probably just to call him ‘Web’, but they were interrupted by Hannah’s voice calling for Joe from the girls’ room.

They stopped for a few seconds before Joe let David’s hand go and went looking for Hannah.

_ He is alone and the boat sways and rattles for the strong wind. _

_ A storm is brewing in the distance, but he’s close to the port now and maybe he’ll get there before it starts raining, before the sea swells, big and black and the clouds rumble above Tusitala. _

_ She sails, wobbling against the tide, fast and steady. _

_ He’s alone on his boat, gripping the helm, racing against the clock. _

_ The wind is strong and cold, the foam’s salt jumping onboard stings his eyes and wets his disheveled hair. _

_ He’s alone as he lights up one last cigarette with trembling fingers, his hands reluctantly letting go of the helm for just a few seconds to snap the lighter open and cup a shield around it, protecting the flame. _

_ The smoke doesn’t even appear from the tip of the cigarette, just a faint cherry of red threatened by the wet and cold. _

_ He thinks about a smoke he had back then, sitting on the half-crumbled floor of a cold damp house overlooking a river, waiting for the night. _

_ He hadn’t be alone then. _

_ If he’d died that night, like someone did, he’d die surrounded by men who maybe did give a shit about him. _

_ If he dies now, he thinks as he inhale smoke with greed and mounting fear, he dies alone. _

_ He is alone. _

\---

**Notes**:

My plans were to add more 'parts' to this chapter, but I started to write and then realised it was already longer than 10 pages. I hope this means the next chapter will be easier to write and will be published faster than how the actual publication schedule is going. We'll see.

Hope what happened makes sense and is of your liking, despite the big 'plot twist' of this chapter being quite a common one. What matter the most to me is the characters' feelings and psychologies and their slow exploration, but I still apologise if the story seems too 'simple' in some steps.

What I wrote about Charles Grant I found online and on Tumblr. I love his character on BoB and found his presence in San Francisco at the time to be the perfect way to start introducing another point of view on Web and Joe's reconciliation.

As usual, thanks for reading and let me know your thoughts about this! :)


	5. October 14th - October 17th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hoped Joe had understood what he had meant: remembrance. Culture. Roots.
> 
> One’s history could often be a painful business of past broken lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand, we're back. It took me a while and it hasn't been easy to write, but here's the fifth chapter.
> 
> Same warnings as the first chapter, more notes at the end of the chapter.
> 
> If you have questions or you want to talk about this fic, come have a chat on Tumblr @brightly-painted-canvas.

**October 14th.**

One late evening, when David had decided to stay over once again, he got woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of the kitchen’s window being opened.

He pushed himself up and quietly padded from the couch to the kitchen’s counter, stopping right in front of the sink to fake being thirsty and in need of a glass of water.

Joe, on the other side of the room, kept smoking, massaging his temples and rubbing his tired eyes with his left hand.

“Goddamned nightmares, couldn’t sleep.” he sighed, keeping his voice low, after David had had his first gulp of cold water from the tap. Joe lowered his hand to take the packet of special Lucky Strikes received as a gift from Chuck and offered it to David.

“Want one? You don’t seem to smoke anymore.” he said, extending his arm to show him the packet.

“No.” refused David, clearing his voice from sleep: “I was forced to quit for a while, now I don’t feel the need anymore.” he explained casually, lifting the glass to his lips once again: “I thought I’d give up for good if I can.” he added after another gulp of water, noticing Joe’s expression change in his white and faint reflection on the window’s glass.

For a moment it looked like Joe was about to say something, but then he just put his cigarette back between his lips and closed his eyes.

“What’s it for you?” asked then David, quietly, placing the empty glass back inside the sink.

Joe shrugged lightly, resting his forehead against the cold window pane, which immediately tarnished in a small spot right under his nose.   
“Mine is… well, you can guess.” he replied: “But Malark is right, Bastogne is up there. When it gets cold…” and, just like his body had a memory of its own, he shivered, shaking visibly under the thick checkered shirt he used as pajama top.

“What about you, buddy?” he asked then.

David’s body produced a memory of bubbles and debris, a chill running down his spine, a sense of suffocation.

He breathlessly, frantically looked for the less painful admission: “The camp hospital.” he hissed.

_ We never spoke about it _ , he thought, once again studying Joe’s sudden wince, directed toward the floor.

Then Joe laughed bitterly: “It’s strange, Web. We seem different, you and I. We didn’t talk like this back then.”

_ We almost didn’t talk at all _ , thought David, but kept for himself,  _ at least not about what really mattered. _

“We’re older and wiser, right? Maybe some of that steam blew off and we realised it’s useless fighting over everything. Just the most relevant things are enough.” he tried to explain, ending on the smallest reassuring smile he could muster.

“I didn't know…” started to say Joe, pausing to puff some smoke and closing his eyes, like he was looking for an explanation, a way to put his thoughts through words: “I didn’t know about most things. I wasn’t concentrated on much more than myself and surviving that motherfucking shitshow of a war…” he tried to articulate.

“That’s okay, Joe. You went through enough… too much. It was too much for everyone.” said David, pausing to look directly at him now, angling his body so that he could rest his aching lower back against the kitchen’s cabinet.

“It’s not a good excuse. I get it now, you know… I could have been more like some of the others, the good ones. Doc, or Chuck… even Tab.” he chuckled without humor, eyes still fixed to the floor: “They cared. For other, for things…”

“You cared, Joe. You care a lot, that’s what ultimately hurts you.” interrupted him David, motionless and with an open, sincere look on his face: “You hurt more than most people, because you care.” he added.

_ I saw you crumble _ , he thought, watching Joe raise his head to send him a confused glance,  _ and I saw you fight back _ .

_ Joe is yelling again. His voice rises from the dirty path down the hill, amidst the green, sunny Austrian pastures. _

_ Joe is yelling again at him and this time Skinny isn’t with them and all David can do is roll his eyes and keep his steady pace, weighted down by the heavy buckets of fresh milk they were sent to confiscate. _

_ “I just… I said I don’t know, really. Why is it so important to you now?” he answers, piqued, taking advantage of a rare moment of silence from the other soldier’s angry monologue. _

_ “Shouldn’t it matter to you, Web? Heritage, bloodline, all those stuff?” pushes Joe, like he’s trying to provoke him into a full argument: “Weren’t you rich people all about that?” he asks, skipping small stones with his shining boots as they walk, refusing to look directly at him. _

_ “I never cared. I think I was named after my great-grandfather if that’s what’s bothering you.” he shrugs, his buckets juggling dangerously from the movement of his arms. _

_ “I’m just proving my point.” bites back Joe, squaring him down with a dangerous glare, which David can’t decide if it’s about the topic of conversation or the milk he almost spilt. _

_ “Fine, I’ll write a letter home to ask about it. For what I know there could be less than zero German blood in me…” he sighs, mumbling the last part almost to himself. _

_ “Your name is  _ David Webster _ for Christ’s sake!” raises his voice once again Joe, stopping in his track to make even more of a scene: “What do you think  _ you _ are? Italian!? Greek!?” he adds. His voice is almost echoing through the hills now, sounding somehow distorted, amplified. _

_ “My grandfather was Scottish…” he mumbles again, defensively, this time loud enough that he’s sure Joe is going to hear him and get even more pissed off. _

_ “Oh, God! Shut the fuck up!” exclaims in fact the other soldier, speeding up his pace to leave him a few feet behind and signal the end of their worthless, empty fight. _

**October 17th.**

David was once again writing on his typewriter in Joe’s kitchen while Hannah was, for once, playing with her dolls in her room, leaving him alone with his tasks, surrounded by silence and the low, steady whirring of the fridge.

He was still trying to concentrate on his far from finished article when he heard the front door open and a quick, light padding of feet running inside.

In his field of vision appeared Ruth, trying to furtively reach her room: unfortunately for her he was sat at the kitchen’s table and perfectly able to catch her crossing the room, looking around furtively.

“Rou? What happened?” he asked, noticing her disheveled appearance.

She jumped, looking straight into David’s eyes like a deer caught in the headlights.

He could clearly notice then that she had a split lip and some drops of dried blood on her white blouse; her usually tidily tied ponytail looked messed up and some locks of her dark hair were falling over her shoulders and face; she seemed flushed and out of breath, like she had been running.

“I… tripped and fell.” she replied, glancing around and monumentally failing at trying to look like she wasn’t lying.

“What happened really?” asked again David, standing up from the kitchen stool and crossing his arms, trying to look authoritative.

“It’s true! I fell on the school’s front steps.” she offered, adding informations to make it sound more credible.

“Did the steps also pull your hair and scare you enough to run home and hide in your room?” he asked, deciding to play her game.

She huffed, affronted by the accusation: “I’m not scared! Wasn’t trying to hide!”

“Then tell the truth and say what happened loud and clear so we don’t have to yell or accuse each other of lying.” he reasoned.

“Think I don’t know you’re gonna tell  _ ta _ ?” she retorted, raising one eyebrow and crossing her arms as well: “I’m 10. Not an idiot.”

“I haven’t said that. Unlike most people, I don’t just assume everyone else is an idiot, I usually prefer talking to them to assess firsthand the level of their intelligence.” he explained, glad Ruth was listening carefully, narrowing her eyes and maintaining her stance: “No, Ruth Liebgott: you’re not an idiot. You are a smart and clever 10-years-old individual who also happens to be as stubborn as a mule and very badly tempered, just like your father. Now, since we are two smart people having a conversation, I think we can reach an agreement here, can’t we? You tell me what happened, we keep the secret. Deal?”

Ruth hesitated, sniffing and looking royally annoyed at having been caught.

“I was in a fight.” she admitted, looking down.

David sighed, resisting the urge to rest his forehead against the palm of his hand: “Why?” he asked.

“I was provoked.” she added, irritated.

In that moment, the front door opened and Ruth didn’t have enough reaction time to try and bolt toward her room before Joe lifted his gaze and saw them standing between kitchen and living room, clearly having a confrontation.

“What’s going on?” he asked, walking straight to the kitchen table to put down the grocery bags and opening the fridge.

David looked expectantly at Ruth, signaling her with a nod of his head to tell his father.

She sighed and admitted: “I had a fight at school.” then added: “Some punk called me a dirty Jew and spat in my direction.”

“Did you punch him?” asked Joe, not looking up from the vegetables he was storing away.

“Yes. Twice.” she replied, almost smirking.

“Good girl.” was her father’s single, proud comment.

“Joe, we…” started David, sighing loudly and looking almost pained by the conversation he had witnessed: “We need to talk.”

“Can it wait?” asked Joe, looking at him nonchalantly while leaning with one arm on the fridge’s door, sipping the last of milk directly from the bottle: “I’m tired and in need of a shower.”

He then placed the empty glass bottle on the table next to David’s work papers and gestured for Ruth to follow him: “C’mon runt, let’s get you patched up.”

“Joe, she… you can’t teach her it’s alright to punch people.” tried David, following them two steps toward the bathroom door.

“She’s allowed to punch Nazis, Web. Hell, we used to shoot at ‘em, didn’t we? Good times.” replied Joe, as he took the first aid kit out of the cabinet.

David raised his voice: “Violence doesn’t solve anything.” he said, noticing how Ruth was still carefully listening to him and how Joe clenched his jaw in annoyance, before turning toward him with a deadly glare, one that David knew very well meant ‘don’t you dare keeping this up’.

David ignored the warning: “It doesn’t cure ignorance, it surely doesn’t convince someone with fascist views to change their mind.” he explained.

“Yeah? And what does?” snapped heatedly Joe.

“Culture.” he replied, matter-of-factly.

“Strange how I didn’t see you using that in Germany.” retorted Joe, laughing bitterly: “Had a riffle and a sidearm and grenades like the rest of us, uh? It’s a shame, really… maybe you could have been more effective as a soldier if you could throw your books at the enemy, Web. Or have a little chit-chat with Hitler himself, right?” he snickered.

David was about to reply when Joe strode toward him to confront him face to face, fisting the collar of his shirt and suddenly dropping the mocking behaviour, looking ignited, furious: “Listen here, Webster. You wanna stick around for a while? Fine. But we’re not a picture perfect rich New Yorker family around here. I’ve been struggling all my life, dealing with these kind of assholes that think they can say and do whatever they want. I don’t expect anything different for my girls, so all I can do is at least teach them how to defend themselves. And around here we defend ourselves with fists and teeth and nails if it gets to it. It’s not pretty. Don’t expect it to be.” he spat viciously and then, considering David’s dumbfounded reaction at being pinned to the wall and yelled at, with a hateful smirk he added: “Surprised, Web? Why? Weren’t you at Landsberg?”

“Why are your fighting?” asked suddenly the small, spooked voice of Hannah from the end of the corridor, looking at them with her big green eyes.

Joe deflated instantly, letting David go and turning toward his youngest to send her an apologetic smile: “It’s nothing, kiddo. Go back to your room, dinner’s not ready yet.”

“I’ll… take care of it.” stuttered David, still left visibly shaken by the confrontation.

“Yeah, you do that.” agreed Joe tonelessly, walking back to the bathroom where Ruth was waiting for him, looking mutedly at her reflection like she was trying to block out their argument.

“Can I stay with you?” asked Hannah, reaching for David as Joe closed the bathroom door to give himself and Ruth some privacy while cleaning her up.

“Sure, Annie. C’mon, you’ll be my helper.” smiled David, taking her offered hand and walking with her the five steps to the kitchen: “Make sure I don’t burn things up.” he said, helping her sit on the stool as he gathered the ingredients from the fridge and cupboards.

“Davie, what is Landsberg?” asked Hannah at some point, and he had to stop to catch himself, sighing and closing his eyes to avoid getting lost in painful, desperate memories.

“It’s a place in Germany. I’ve been there with your dad, many years ago.” he said calmly, without offering any additional explanation.

An unnatural, unusual silence fell over the house as both Hannah and Ruth had easily perceived the distance and uneasiness between the two adults.

After dinner, David decided to at least resolve one issue.

Waiting for the right moment when he and Ruth were alone together in the living room, as Joe had to help Hannah get ready for bed, he made a big show of having to use the whole surface of the coffee table in front of the couch to organise his papers.

He succeeded in catching Ruth’s interest while the girl was sat at her usual spot, feet dangling over the carpet, nose in a book.

“Why do you have so many?” she asked, keeping a flat tone like she was trying not to show her curiosity over his business.

“Care to help?” he enquired without replying, showing a pile of densely inked sheets of paper.

“What do you need me for?” she asked again, raising one eyebrow in disapproval, but still managing to close her book and shift down from the couch, getting closer.

She looked closely to the documents, for sure trying to decipher David’s handwriting.

“Organise them by date.” he said, placing some more papers down and pointing at the one at the top, right over the corner were the date had been marked.

Ruth took the documents in her hands, interested. She read a few lines of the first article, then she seemed to recoil and realise she was falling into David’s trap: se lifted her gaze to meet his expectant smile and huffed, scowling.

“This is minors labour.” she pointed out, but still she started the task.

“Or it’s just you helping me, like I’ve asked.” he snickered, victorious.

They worked in silence for a while, David selecting the papers he needed to keep and the ones he could throw away, Ruth concentrated on her job of sorting out the important ones.

“Truce?” said David at some point, easily.

“We haven’t fought.” said Ruth, emphasizing the ‘we’, like she was trying to suggest him he had another peace offering to make, to someone else.

David nodded, conceding that to her. She was right.

“I just wish we tried to like each other more.” he admitted, daring a quick side glance to her, catching her sudden perplexed look. She was surely trying to consider her feelings on the matter, the pros and cons of admitting if she wanted the same or not. She was so much like his father on this, but unlike him in preferring a deep thought instead of an on-the-spot reaction.

“I don’t  _ have _ to like you.” she made clear after a few beats, lifting her gaze.

David considered the red swelling under her left eye, the dark red cut on her lip, the waves of her thick dark hair falling on her shoulders, some locks framing her small, pale, bruised face.

“True.” he agreed again: “But would it hurt if you did? Would anything bad come from trying to like me?” he added, forcing his own reasoning to infiltrate the deep reasoning insider her young mind.

“I guess it wouldn’t.” she admitted.

“Do you think you might come to like me, at some point?” he asked then, as she lowered her gaze on David’s work papers, clearly still lost in her thoughts.

_ It’s not easy trusting people _ , the voice in his head told David,  _ you should know. She knows. _

“Maybe I already do.” she conceded, after a while.

David released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

_ If you ever need me, you’ve got me _ , he thought. He promised.

“Should we strike another deal, Rou?” he proposed instead, forcing a kind smile on his lips.

She looked back at him, nodding slowly. She was only encouraging him to go on, carefully listening to the content of the deal she was being offered.

“No more fights at school. If they insult you, you ignore them or seek help from your teachers. You show them your superiority by demonstrating how above their opinions you are, how much more intelligent you are.” he said, slowly and carefully: “It’s not gonna be easy for a while, but perseverance is the key. It takes strength. And you are strong.” he added.

She kept quiet, nodding again. She wanted to hear more.

“In exchange, I’ll do everything I can to help you become a writer.” he added, then.

Her eyes rounded in surprise. She sighed an ‘oh’ of surprise.

“You’ll have to concentrate on your studies. No more time for fights.” he grinned.

“It’s gonna be expensive.” she said, her first words after a while. She looked sad, somehow, already disenchanted by her prospects in life at her young age.

He suddenly had to repress the urge to scream in frustration. No, he had a role to play in this now: he had to assure her the world wasn’t against her. And that if it was, he would make sure to fight by her side.

“Everything I can.” he repeated, extending his hand toward her, waiting for her reaction.

She sighed again and promised: “No more fights.”, shaking his hand in her small, but warm one.

David let her get back to her book then, stopping in his organising spree only to fish something from his bag and placing it right beside her on the couch.

“A thank you gift for helping me.” he simply said, turning around to get back to his work and give her time to study the new addiction to her library.

“‘Treasure Island’?” asked Ruth, her hands already weighting the book, threading through the yellowed pages.

“My very own personal copy of the first book I’ve ever read.” he explained.

“Isn’t it a children’s book?” asked again the girl, opening the first cover to look amusedly at a scribble on the top right corner, faded pencil scrapes forming the initials ‘D K W’. She traced them with her fingers.

The paperback was old and its spine was worn, almost torn up. David remembered buying it with money given by his grandfather, from a bookstore in 4th Avenue.   
It was one of the few selected that stayed with him all his life, and he even took to war.

Now it was hers.

“It is only if you don’t read it carefully.” he reprimanded without malice, glancing back at her to catch her eyes roll.

She closed the book and hugged it close to her chest, closing her eyes for a few seconds.

“Thank you, David.” she said then, softly.

He liked that sound, he decided.

_ His eyes sting with unshed tears, but he refuses to cry, just like he always said: no crying, you win your fights like a man. You are a man. _

_ “You and your goddamn  _ books _ !” yells his father again, his fist once again hitting the table with a dull sound, echoing against the walls of the dining room. _

_ “Edward, not so loud…” begs his mother, for sure already feeling one of her infamous headaches mounting. As on cue, she places one delicate, manicured hand over her forehead and sighs. _

_ “It’s your fault, Margaret. And your father’s!” adds him, lowering his tone just slightly. _

_ “Don’t even start with that…” she shakes her head, trying to dismiss the topic. _

_ “I knew you encouraged him in the wrong direction! With your literature, your history, your…  _ books _ !” he goes on and David hates the sound of his words. The way he pronounces them like they’re dirt, they’re lesser things, they’re unworthy. _

_ He looks around the table at John and Ann, both with their heads bowed over their almost empty plates, not even bothering to make it seems like they’re still interested in eating what’s left. _

_ Ann has already confessed once that she thinks dad gets scary when mad. _

_ “The family reputation would still be intact.” he says and his voice sounds calm while inside he’s fuming, bubbling up with anger. He must be the exact opposite of his father’s wrath: it’s the only way he can be the better man. No matter how his eyes keep on feeling too wet. _

_ “It’s still Harvard, just another faculty.” he adds. _

_ John is looking at him now, with a mix of admiration and concern painted on his features. _

_ “ _ No. _ ” booms his father’s voice, and David feels like everyone in the room had to slightly recoil at the curt, imposing refusal: “You’re studying Law, Kenyon. End of discussion.” he says. _

_ “I don’t want to be a lawyer, father.” he insists, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white and his short nails start cutting through the skin of his palms. He doesn’t feel the pain of it, overshadowed by the blind fury inside of him. _

_ “I don’t care what  _ you _ want.” replies his father, spelling out each word clearly to deliver the last, fatal hit. _

_ “Eat your dinner, Ken.” urges him his mother, then, with a gentle touch on his shoulder: “C’mon. John you too, dear.” she adds, looking at his younger son with a nervous smile. _

Ruth was right: before heading to bed, there was another peace offering he had to make to someone inside the house.

He sat on the couch, already dressed up in his pajama bottoms and the old t-shirt Joe had given him, which he hadn’t yet come around to substitute with one of his own.

When Joe extinguished his last smoke, closed the window and started to head back to his room, he simply said: “ _ Sie wird gemobbt. _ ” loud enough to be heard by the other man, but quiet enough to make it sound like he was just considering a passing thought.

“ _ Und? _ ” asked Joe, an annoyed tone that twenty years prior would have been filled with challenge, but now only sounded exhausted.

“Punching them, although being a very brave act on her part, isn’t gonna help her out of this situation.” he concluded his reasoning, lifting his gaze from the empty coffee table in front of him to Joe’s clouded expression, his defensive stance with his arms crossed.

“What, then, is gonna help, oh almighty knower of all?” asked then Joe, his voice dripping with fake reverence.

David knew right away that he had a very few chances of replying without igniting an irascible reaction from the other. He waited a few seconds before shrugging: “You.”

Joe looked taken aback, probably expecting some other kind of statement from him.

David slowly rose from the couch, taking a few steps toward him, careful and calculated like he was approaching a wild animal. He was, indeed, approaching a difficult topic.

“You are her father, Joe. Ruth looks up to you.  _ Sie müssen das gute Beispiel sein. _ ” he said.

Joe frowned at that, shrugging his shoulders: “ _ Mache ich es falsch, oder... _ ”

“ _ Ich weiß, es ist nicht einfach... _ ” he started again, but this time he knew right away he had taken a wrong step, used the wrong words.

“No, you ain’t know  _ nothin’ _ !” yelled suddenly Joe, his voice a loud shot in the stillness and silence of the house. They both closed their eyes and winced, waiting a few seconds to ascertain the girls hadn’t heard them.

When David blinked his eyes open again, Joe looked furious like never before: his cheeks were flushed, his arms were now down the length of his body, tight and wiry, fists closed like he was getting ready to fight.

“You think you know shit, Webster, but since fucking  _ when _ you get about parenthood, uh?!” he asked, lowering his voice just slightly.

And David was about to drop it and say he was sorry, but then he thought about his parents. His mother’s fake smiles and reassurance, his father’s fragile authority and toxic behaviour.

“I know enough bad examples…” he mumbled under his breath, looking away.

“Well, then! Enlighten me with you knowledge!” exclaimed Joe, opening his arms in a mocking gesture of welcoming: “If you have any idea what the fuck is going on then tell me, because fuck if I know!” he added, and David heard his voice break and the mood shift so suddenly he had to look back at him.

Joe was still in his place, but now he had one arm lifted, his hand gripping his hair in a way that looked almost painful. He was turning into a picture of desperation and hatred.

He was slowly, relentlessly crumbling.

“Everything slipped out so long ago…” he admitted, this time a low, hurtful sound.

“Joe…” tried to intervene David, but he really couldn’t find the words and the strength to stop what was happening.

Like a deja-vu from his deepest, most frightening memories, he watched helplessly as Joe crashed down, sliding with his back against the wall, taking his face in his hands as he started shaking with rage and sorrow.

“I was a boy making a living out of cutting hair and driving cabs… God, Web… what happened?” he murmured, and David had to step closer, crouch down in front of him to hear his words, conflicted about what he could do to help.

“I was a soldier. Then, a veteran. I married, got kids, lost my wife.” he stopped then, silenced by an hiccup: “I have no fucking clue who am I, who I’ve been all along. What’s going on.” he glanced up then, his red and wet eyes meeting David’s: “Maybe you do, but I don’t. I don’t know shit: how to live this life, how to grow up kids on my own…”

“But you’re doing such a good job…” David couldn’t help but say, stating something he had meant to tell Joe for a while. How proud of him he was, how well, despite all the hardship, he was raising his girls.

“Am I, Web?” asked Joe, his broken voice morphing into a self-deprecating tone: “Or am I doing the bare minimum to help them survive?” he added, taking David by surprise.

“Working all day to put food on their table, is that the only thing you have to do to raise kids?” asked Joe rhetorically, this time lowering his gaze to stare at his hands, cupped on top of his bent knees and wet with tears.

“They love you, Joe. And you love them.” said David.

Joe shook his head, closing his eyes like a new wave of sorrow was rising and he was desperate not to drown in it: “Is that enough?!” he asked, his voice low but his tone so broken and desperate David felt it sting like the first loud shout.

“Answer me, Webster! Is that  _ enough _ ?!” and with that he covered his face once again, curling on himself: “ _ Fuck _ ...” he swore, breathlessly.

David couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t just stand there for the second time in his life, watching as the man he loved surrendered to his despair.

He slowly, gently and carefully curled his arms around Joe’s slight, shaking body and held him close, in a weirdly tangled hug halfway between the wall and the carpeted floor.

Joe tensed immediately, lifting one hand to try and push David away: “Don’t you dare pity me!” he hissed, but so desperately and weakly that David only had to wait a few second before the same hand that was trying to separate them was now fisting the cotton of his t-shirt, keeping him close.

David placed his cheek upon Joe’s head, feeling the softness of his dark locks under his skin, trying his best to instill some warmth in a body so cold, in a soul so battered and scarred beyond his comprehension.

“It’s okay.” he could only say, keeping very still, as to give Joe the time to take from him what he needed, to decide how long and how much he needed it.

“I lost…” sighed Joe against his chest, letting go of a long, warm breath: “I’ve lost so much.” he stated, and David could only nod, slowly.

_ This is how you care _ , he thought, listening to the quiet house around them, except for Joe’s breath and heartbeat, so close he could feel it on his skin, and the low whirring of the fridge.

_ Underneath is the feeling of cold tiles on a bathroom floor. All around, a tense, uncomfortable silence. _

_ Joe is curled on the floor, head bowed and hidden, shaking with soundless uncontrollable sobs. _

_ He has one hand closed tight in a fist, knuckles white, skin marred, pale and sickly. _

_ He’s been there since they came back from the camp. _

_ David watches him, knowing he can’t stop what’s happening. _

_ “Captain Speirs asked for you…” he says, feeling like his voice doesn’t belong to him, it’s a different entity, on its own, delivering informations he finds inappropriate, wrong. _

_ “No…” sobs Joe, weakly. _

_ And David thinks:  _ but this isn’t Joe. _ Joe Liebgott doesn’t say ‘no’ to orders. He’s not weak. He’s not fragile. This isn’t Joe. _

_ They don’t speak: Joe doesn’t ask to be left alone, he doesn’t acknowledge his presence. _

_ He’s not there. _

I’ll go in your place _ , David thinks,  _ I know German as good as you do, right?

_ But please, come back. _

Joe had stopped crying. He had lifted his back just enough so that their embrace broke and after that they just sat on the floor, side by side this time, facing the empty living room.

It was probably very late.

“Sometimes I think of it, you know.” said softly David, breaking their long silence. He closes his tired eyes and there’s a sunny summer day on a hill, the smell of fresh milk and white dust on a road: “Of who’d I’d been if my great-grandparents hadn’t decided to leave Germany centuries ago.” he had gone home and he had dutifully looked through his family tree.

“Would I have been one of those we fought?” he asked, almost like he was talking to himself.

“If you were, I’d have been glad I was being shot at by someone with your poor aim.” said Joe, his voice hoarse but his tone finally back to normal, back to sarcastic and bitter.

David just snickered, lifting his head to elongate his neck and back against the wall: his body wasn’t taking sitting on the floor much well. He felt pain all over, but he could care less at the moment.

“I don’t know about you, but I know what I almost were.” said then Joe, his voice soft and somber: “I was born in Michigan, but my older sister wasn’t. You get it, don’t you?” he asked, sending a questioning look to David, his eyes still red, but finally unclouded, open and earnest.

David stood still, trying to consider what Joe’s words seemed to imply. What would have happened if Joe was born an Austrian. Austrian Jewish.

“No…” he murmured, forcing his mind to stop picturing it. He shook his head, but Joe was still looking at him, this time with an almost cynical expression.

“You know it. And my parents, my siblings…” he added.

“That didn’t happen.” said David, resolutely.

This time it was his hand the first to move, taking Joe’s cold and pale one resting between them on the floor. They both looked down briefly, startled, then into each other’s eyes.

“It happened to so many…” sighed Joe, tiredly. There was something unreadable painted on his face, something that scared David more than the previous outburst of tears.

He thought about Toccoa. The first words they had exchanged back then, he didn’t even remember where or when. Just a simple: ‘ _ Translator? You too? _ ’ and then a look up and down of icy dark eyes, calculating: ‘ _ You don’t look like one. _ ’ as if someone had to look some way to know scholastic German.

He thought about England, France and Holland. He had so many memories, so many involving Joe, so many things he discovered slowly, piece by piece, about the other man. Some he even wrote in an unfinished book.

“One day, when they’re older, you’ll have to talk to the girls about it. All of it.” he softly said, calm and steady, looking into the same dark eyes of almost twenty years ago.

He hoped Joe had understood what he had meant: remembrance. Culture. Roots.

One’s history could often be a painful business of past broken lives.

Joe blinked and nodded once, slowly. Then he squeezed David’s hand in his, briefly, in a gesture that could have meant a few things.

David thought it was simply a silent ‘thank you’.

\---

**Notes**:

First of all, I am in no way an expert on many of the subjects this chapter considers: antisemitism, parenthood, social and religious matters in the 60s, etc. And I am not trying to make a statement through what I've written or believing I should decide which were the thoughts of people in these communities or even the real people these characters portray.  
This is a work of fiction and I am writing what I need to write in order to make this story progress on the narrative basis as well as the psychological one for my characters.  
If you have any comments or questions or you want to talk about it, I am here for you.

Secondly, everything I've written about Web's family and heritage, including the names of his parents, is completely made up for the story's sake.

Lastly, here's some German translation (I haven't studied German, these have all been taken from Reverso Context + Google Translate, so there might be errors):

_Sie wird gemobbt _= she's being bullied  
_Und?_ = and?  
_Sie müssen das gute Beispiel sein. _= you have to make the good example  
_Mache ich es falsch, oder... _= am I doing it wrong, or...  
_Ich weiß, es ist nicht einfach... _= I know it's not easy...  


I really do hope there's still someone interested in reading this fic and that whoever did liked this chapter. It's been difficult to write and research for it and that took me a lot of energy, something I lack of in this very particular historical time. I've also realised that there's not much 'action' in these last two chapters, but that's mostly because I had to break a bit of the walls Web and Joe have constructed around themselves and it took (and will take) a lot of talking (and yelling, I guess).

Thanks for reading, hope you're all well! Take care of yourselves!


	6. October 20th - October 23rd - October 24th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stayed in the car a few minutes more, waiting for nothing, but needing it nonetheless.
> 
> Outside, the sun was setting and painting the sky behind the cottage of red, orange and pink shades. The breeze was getting stronger, probably colder than it looked.
> 
> Somehow, it felt very peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been one of the hardest things I've ever written. I hadn't predicted it would take so much from me in terms of emotions, truly: I've tried to give it as much most life as possibile.
> 
> Same warnings as the first chapter, more notes at the end of the chapter.
> 
> If you have questions or you want to talk about this fic, come have a chat on Tumblr @brightly-painted-canvas.

**October 20th.**

David was meant to stay only until Hannah had fallen asleep for her afternoon nap and then head back home, but he got distracted by finishing a few chores around the kitchen and helping Ruth with her homework so, when the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of the girls’ grandmother, he was still not ready to leave.

“Rou, can you get that for me please?” he asked the older girl, who dutifully got up from the couch and headed to the front door.

David put the last washed and dried plates in the cupboard before heading the other way along the corridor, reaching the girls’ bedroom in time to catch Hannah waking up from her nap.

“Is  _ bubbe _ here?” she asked, with a small and sleepy adorable voice.

“Just arrived. Want to get up and say ‘hi’?” he proposed softly, getting closer to help her change out of her pajamas.

Once she was ready, they joined Ruth and the newcomer in the living room.

David had only heard about Joe’s mother from the girls: from their words, she easily seemed like the standard grandmother everybody could have. Kind, chatty, always sneaking seconds of food into their plates when the other adults weren’t looking.

In the middle of the living room, looking curiously at the pile of covers and pillows which were by then David’s and his papers still scattered all over the small table, stood a lean and composed figure, a blonde and dark eyed woman who looked like her oldest son only in the form of her thin face and the shape of her red-tinted lips.

She was still beautiful, the kind of beauty of those modest and ordinary people that never faded or diminished with time.

“Hi, _ bubbe _ .” said dutifully Hannah, reaching the woman to hug her legs.

“Hello, my sweetest darling.” she replied, smiling down at Hannah and bending to kiss her above the head.

Then she straightened her back and looked at the only stranger in the room: “You must be David?” she asked, with a curious gleam in her dark eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. David Webster, it is nice to meet you.” he replied, bowing his head slightly.

“At last. The girls can’t stop talking about you lately.” she pointed out then, smiling amusedly.

Her voice was kind and composed and her Austrian accent was way more pronounced than Joe’s. She was looking at David so intensely that he couldn’t help but blush a little under her attentive scrutiny.

“Good things, I hope.” he joked, looking from Hannah, still holding the hem of her grandmother’s skirt in her tiny fist, to Ruth, sat on the couch with her book now closed on her crossed legs: “Even from you, Rou?” he asked.

“I only said that you’re a pain in the ass once.” she replied cheekily, making both adults jump up with a ‘language, young lady!’ which amused the whole group of people.

“Come here, David. Let me have a good look at you.” ordered then Mary Liebgott, her tone resulting far more authoritative than the kind smile she was still wearing.

She guided him toward the light coming from the window, leaving the girls at their devices, reading or playing around the coffee table.

David stood awkwardly with his back straight as the older woman studied him. It kind of reminded him of the medical examinations he endured before enlisting.   
She raised her gloved hand to gently caress and move his head, clearly interested in understanding the reason behind the scars on his forehead.

Her gestures didn’t feel impolite, though. She kept silent and composed and smiled softly once her curiosity seemed satisfied.

“You don’t look like how I’ve imagined you.” she concluded.

David blinked, taken aback by that statement: “And how was it?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Mary shook her head, making her carefully structured hairstyle bounce and shine in the soft light of the afternoon: she had streaks of white in the sandy blonde of her curls: “It doesn’t matter. You look more like a writer than a soldier, anyway… that’s for the best.”

“That’s what the girls say about me?” he added, still confused.

“Joseph.” she simply stated.

“He doesn’t look like a soldier either.” he reasoned, quickly looking back at the girls in lack of much else to do, trying to hide his awkwardness at talking about Joe to his mother: “Not anymore, at least.”

She didn’t look like she agreed with him: “Maybe he’s different from when you two first met. But he’s been different from that, too. My boy, he takes it from me…” she said, something briefly clouding the otherwise placidity of her gaze.

“What does he take from you?” asked David, his voice softer than before.

She sighed, shaking her head once again: “The up and downs.”

David didn’t enquire further. They returned their full attention toward the girls, Mary moving to sit beside Ruth on the couch and David carefully bending down to put away his files, with Hannah’s help.

He offered to make her coffee or tea, but the older woman refused and only accepted a glass of water.

Once he had all his stuff packed, he got up and said his goodbyes to the girls and their grandmother.

“When will you be back, David?” asked Ruth, looking pensive.

“In a couple of days, I believe. I have some articles I need to finish and take personally to the newspaper office.” he explained, watching as the girl twisted the book on her lap.

“I need to take this back to the library and wanted to go with you.” she admitted, fidgeting with her fingers flipping through the pages. Her grandmother was looking at her, clearly amused by her unusual behaviour.

“We can go together, of course.” he agreed.

“I wanna come too!” chirped Hannah, sat on the carpet playing with some of the toys she had left under the coffee table before lunch.

“You wanna get a new book too, Annie? Maybe we can find something about sharks.” proposed David: “I’ll help you read it.”

“Yes!” exclaimed the little girl, smiling up at him.

David shouldered his bag then, ready to go: “Bye then, ladies. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Liebgott.” he greeted, looking once again at the woman.

She nodded and got up from the couch to accompany him to the front door.

“I have just one more thing to say, David.” she added, the front door already opened and David already halfway through.

His name sounded in a very strange way when she pronounced it. It was like nobody else’s way of saying it and it sent a shiver down David’s spine, who stopped immediately and turned around to look her in the eyes.

“Would you mind stick around for a while?” she asked, bluntly.

“I…” he stuttered, trying to find the right words to give her a reply.

“The girls are fond of you and you seem to handle them well.” she explained, more calmly: “You may not see it, but you were much needed in this family.”

He was rendered speechless by her words. She hadn’t said it generically, like someone helping with the girls had been needed around for a while, she specifically said David. He was needed. He was doing well.

“I don’t know what the girls tell you about me, but…” he tried, but got interrupted once again by her authoritative tone.

“Joseph.” she corrected, once again.

“What about him?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Mary Liebgott rolled her eyes. Just like her son would, she literally just rolled her eyes at him.

“Goodbye, David. Take care of yourself.” she dismissed him, closing the door.

The long travel back to his sea cottage after these events was a confused and awkward one.

**October 23rd.** ****

David had scheduled his meeting at the newspaper so that, once finished, he was perfectly in time to go get Hannah and meet with Ruth outside the library.

They lost themselves around shelves and shelves of books, Ruth choosing what she wanted to read next with great difficulty, Hannah asking David to read her everything she found interesting in the children’s section so she could better decide which one to take home with her.

Once outside, they had a stroll on their way home during which David got almost bullied into buying them ice cream.

“You girls are a nightmare.” he sighed, helping Hannah eat from her cone with a spoon.

“You’ve been knowing that for a while now.” retorted Ruth, a dollop of ice cream on the tip of her nose: “And yet you’re still around.”

He sighed again, passing her his handkerchief.

That evening, right after dinner, rain started to pour.

“Well, something was up with the weather earlier.” commented Joe, looking outside the kitchen window: “You weren’t planning on heading back home, right?” he asked, sending a look to David, already busy washing the dishes.

“I still am.” he said, shrugging: “It’s just rain.” he added.

But the weather got worse and worse by the minute and the sky started rumbling as soon as they were done with the washing and cleaning. David was stalling, buying time by cleaning spotless corners around the kitchen instead of packing his things to get ready to leave: the thunders were coming closer. The storm was almost above them.

“You should stay, Web. I wouldn’t drive for hours in this weather. And I’m a cabby.” said again Joe: “What have you got to do anyway?” he added.

“I’ve got an appointment tomorrow.” he revealed, purposely not looking outside the kitchen window like Joe was doing.

“I can take you tomorrow morning first thing. I took a day off.” suggested Joe, frowning as he noticed David’s stiff pose and restless expression.

“ _ Tatti _ ! I saw a flash! Hurry!” called Hannah from the girl’s room. Right after the sound of her voice, came the loud boom of a thunder.

“You should spend it with them.” said David, swallowing a gulp of air and briefly closing his eyes, trying to calm himself down.   
Suddenly, something was pushing him down, keeping him pinned. He needed air. He needed to think.

The sky was rumbling. The rain was white, frothy and salty.

“ _ Tatti _ !” called again Hannah.

“One moment!” replied Joe, raising his voice.

David couldn’t help but flinch, the loud noise making his skin rise and his mind remember that day at sea, that storm of only a few month prior.

“Web…” said Joe, his tone now low and uncertain. David wasn’t looking at him, but he felt him closer, amidst the flashes and thunders, the cold rain, the incessant and desperate swaying of the boat underneath them.

“She needs you.” he pointed out feebly, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter behind him to keep steady, his knuckles turning white, his teeth gritting painfully.

“You need me too.” he felt Joe say, couldn’t help but think he had imagined it.

But Joe was now in front of him, gently tugging him away from the spot he stood frozen in, with one warm hand on his arm, guiding him toward the living room: “This is shell shock.” he affirmed.

“I’ve seen it, I know what’s like.” added Joe, with a tone like he was replying to David’s protests, but he wasn’t sure he had voiced them: he felt distant from his body, heavy and scared. There was a storm outside… a storm… cold water…

“Sit down, take this.” ordered Joe, his voice firm, but somehow kind, like the one he usually had when talking with the girls. He gently pushed David down on the couch, wrapping around him the blanket he used to sleep there.

“It’s cold…” he heard himself mutter, his teeth chattering and his chest constricting painfully, making him feel out of breath.

“What is it, Web?” asked Joe, this time he was right beside him on the couch, his hand never leaving his arm, drawing small circles on his bicep: “Is it the mortars? War?”

_ Lie _ , told a voice inside his head, louder and clearer than the thunders and the roars of the waves,  _ you won’t hurt him, this way. You have to lie, Kenyon _ .

He nodded, hoping it was enough to convince Joe he was having memories of the war. Something which now was as far away from his mind as possible.

_ It’s not the war, I wasn’t in Bastogne _ , he thought, amidst the chaos inside his head,  _ he knows you’re lying. You’re a liar. Stop lying. _

“You’re safe now. You’re away from that place, at home, dry and warm. I promise, you’re safe.” came the slow, calm voice of Joe, feeling closer and closer, more and more real.

Time passed, somehow.

Once David could breath easily again and could bear to open his eyes, the room was dark, Joe was still by his side and both Ruth and Hannah were with them on the couch, keeping still and close. Hannah had climbed on his lap and had her head against his chest, warm and safe. Ruth sat by her father’s side, holding his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry.” he sighed, circling Hannah’s small body with his arm to hug her back.

Joe shifted, allowing their four bodies to better fit the cramped space.

“Flashes scare me too, Davie.” said Hannah against his chest. She lifted Tooth, David noticing in that moment she had taken it with her. He accepted the offered protection of the small shark plushie, placing it on his other leg, the one not occupied by the little girl.

Outside the rain was still pouring, but the thunderstorm had passed.

“Please, stay.” repeated then Joe, looking at him openly and earnestly.

By his side, Ruth simply nodded, while Hannah gripped at his shirt, burying her head closer to his chest.

“Alright.” he accepted, voice hoarse and wavering.

For a few moments more, they kept close, just like that.

**October 24th.**

The weather was sunny and windy.

Joe had tried to insist about taking the girls to his mother and accompanying David back to his house, but he strenuously resisted until he was successfully driving his car out of the city and along the coast.

The sea cottage was still and silent, exactly like any other day.

There was a bit more sand on the back porch and a few dark stripes of dirt on the windows, but David couldn’t tell otherwise if the storm had also hit Santa Barbara the previous night.

Another thing that hadn’t change in his brief absence was Aida’s hunger: she jumped up the porch as soon as he opened the door and meowed loudly until he let her in, giving her some scraps of food he still had in the fridge.

The only other thing he had time to do around the house after a quick lunch was taking a shower and change into fresh clothes, before he needed to drive to his appointment at the boathouse.

He was about to head out when the doorbell rang.

He opened the door in confusion, realising he hadn’t had guests over since he had taken over the house six years earlier.

“Christenson?” he asked, once he saw Joe standing outside: it was a replay of the first time he had gone searching for him in San Francisco.

Joe nodded, looking curiously at the sea-salted and crusty wooden walls of David’s cottage. He had an almost finished cigarette in his mouth, like he had been standing there, smoking, thinking about what to do for a few minutes.

“Yeah.” he replied, smiling cheekily: “The poor guy must think he works as a phone operator or something…” he smirked and stepped aside to let David walk out and close the door behind him.

“I don’t wanna be late, you’ll have a tour inside later.” said David, cautiously adding: “If you want.” as a second thought.

“Whatever.” shrugged Joe: “Where’d you have to go anyway?” he asked, following David to his parked car. Joe’s taxi was right beside it, like it somehow belonged in the otherwise always empty second spot.

David realised right then and there that he had to either take Joe with him or blatantly lie not to reveal where he was headed to and, more importantly, why. Something he had tried to keep to himself for almost a month.

But why did he still do that? And why did Joe always look interested in knowing what had happened? Was it worth it, keeping it from him any longer?

“I can see you thinking, fucker.” he heard Joe reproach him.

David sighed, opening the door of his car and giving a small nod with his head toward Joe, signaling him to take the passenger seat: “I guess I’ll have to show you.” he simply said.

He stayed in complete silence for the whole hour drive it took to reach to the boathouse.

If Joe had anything to comment about David’s driving style or his car or anything else at all, he kept it to himself: he had his window rolled down at half and he kept smoking and kept sending silent looks at the driver.

David didn’t know what the glances were for: curiosity, maybe. Or judgement, considering it was Joe Liebgott sitting right by his side, in his car. Probably the first passenger he had had in years. He didn’t ask.

He however felt a shiver running down his spine every time he felt that stare on him, every time he had the chance to look back and catch Joe averting his gaze from his profile to the scenery outside the window.

The golden beaches of California kept rolling on and on the more they drove to the South. There was a strong marine breeze, making the air inside the car swirl and mess both their already slightly unkempt hairstyles. No clouds in sight on the endless expanse of clear blue above the water.

The remittance was a small barn-like building right by the beach. It didn’t take too much to find it once they had taken the right unpaved road closer to the shore.

A wooden sign offered only the name of the family-owned company leading the business and the opening hours.

David parked right under the sign, shutting off the car and taking a few minutes just to listen to the sudden silence, disturbed only by the muffled and distant sounds of wind and waves.

He collected himself, feeling once again Joe’s attentive scrutiny and promptly ignoring it, for once.

When he was ready to go, he simply opened the car’s door and got out, hoping Joe would decide to wait for him inside the vehicle or in the parking lot.

He didn’t, of course. As soon as David stepped foot inside the boathouse, Joe was already carefully tailing behind him, like Aida would do when she’d see David lead to the pantry.

“Mr. Webster, is it?” asked a short, bald man with a scruffy red beard, coming down a ladder placed by the side of a huge fishing boat, clearly under repair: “Right on time!” he commented, jovially. The man reached them with his hand already extended, shaking theirs with vigor.

“Took me long enough to take my decision…” replied David, feeling slightly uncomfortable all of sudden, probably due to the intense scrutiny he was receiving both from Joe and the boathouse owner.

“I get it, boy. It must be a hard one.” said, the man turning a little more serious. His eyes caught the scar on David’s forehead and suddenly his gaze lowered, like he had remembered why exactly David had had to come for a visit.

“And you are?” he asked instead, focusing his attention on Joe.

“Joe Liebgott, mr. …?” said Joe, clearly lost at what they were doing in a place like that.

“Oh, Sanders. Carl Sanders.” said the man and shook Joe’s hand again, for good measure.

“Can we… go see her?” asked David, his patience already wearing thin: he was nervous and he wanted this whole mess to be done as quickly as possible, more so now that he had Joe as yet another witness of what he had gone and done and lost in his life after the war.

“Her?” asked Joe in disbelief, as mr. Sanders lead the way and David simply followed in silence, not even acknowledging Joe’s bewildered tone.

They didn’t have to search for long: in a corner of the boathouse was the relic of Tusitala, lying on her side with her mast and canvases all broken, missing some parts, showing the inside of the hull through a tremendous gash in the centre, looking like a screaming mouth of splinters and debris.

“We did what we could, which wasn’t much. I guess you’ll need time to…” said mr. Sanders, unable to finish his sentence. David wasn’t listening to him, anyway.

He stood motionless by his boat, looking at her without even understanding his emotions.

“I’ll leave you to it.” said then mr. Sanders, stepping away and sending a look to Joe, sharing his worry. The boathouse owner left then, but Joe remained.

He looked carefully at David like he was trying to predict his next move, waiting for at least a few words from the man he had known to be an inexhaustible source of notions and chatters all through even the worst moments of war.

But David was void of any ability of reaction: he had seen his boat sail the sea and fish sharks, he had cared for her for years, he could easily remember the day he bought her… and now she was simply gone. Unrecoverable. Unfixable.

He didn’t know how long the stood there, but when he finally found the strength to move, he just stepped away and walked back to the entrance, not even meeting Joe’s intense stare. Joe followed.

Mr. Sanders was waiting for them with a bag in his hand and a few papers he asked David to sign, to give up property of the boat so the company could take away and use some of the few good parts before destroying the rest of the relic. David just signed without reading.

Then Carl handed him the bag: “It’s the few items we found.” he said.

“Thank you.” said David without any emotion showing on his features or colouring his voice: he shook the man’s hand one last time and headed out, to reach his car and sit heavily on the driver’s seat, closing the door with a dull bang.

He slowly opened the bag on his lap, ignoring Joe’s careful steps toward the car and his way more quiet fashion of getting inside. If he’d payed attention he would have noticed how strangely Joe was acting around him, but he couldn’t focus on that at the moment.

He looked inside the bag: most of the recovered items were useless things, ruined and half-broken and anyhow meant to be used on a boat and not on land. His maps and papers were all washed-out or melted and when he found his journal, his half-finished book, he felt a sudden wave of anger surge from the empty pit of his stomach.

More than ten years of researches, experiences and studies all reduced to a sad, waterlogged notebook, unreadable and ripping apart in his hands as he tried to decipher what was once carefully written on the pages, glued together by dried sea water and sand.

He wanted to scream, to tear everything apart, to hit the steering wheel in front of him so hard he could draw blood on his knuckles and maybe reopen one of his still aching, stitched wounds.

But he just sat there, instead, looking inside the bag like it contained all the things he hated about himself, about his life.

And that’s when Joe decided to speak: “Let me drive.”

“Fuck you, this is my car.” he spat out, viciously. This really wasn’t the time to argue about that.

But Joe’s voice resounded again in the closed space of the car: “Remember that day in Austria?” and it felt like a slap.

“You let me drive. Our hands were shaking badly, both mine and yours, but you let me drive.” said calmly Joe: “You trusted me, still.” he added.

Something inside David broke. His rage faded instantly, like smoke after a doused fire. He turned to look at Joe and their eyes met: this time none of them diverted his gaze.

“I trust you.” he said, unable to think and formulate anything else: of course he did.

“Good. Let’s switch seats.” proposed Joe, but David didn’t move.

He blinked, suddenly realising the absurdity of what was happening: Joe was there. Joe had been there. And now he was asking to drive his car.

“You don’t have to do this.” he said, slowly and still not over the moment of bewilderment he was experiencing.

“No one forced me.” pointed out Joe, with a shrug: “I wanted to come.”

There was a moment of silence, where they could once again hear the distant sound of waves.

“But… why?” asked David, and that was really a good question.

Why coming all the way to Santa Barbara on his day off? Why sitting through another long drive and assist to the pitiful spectacle he had just endured? Why wasting time?

Joe took a deep breath at that, his eyes betraying an emotion David couldn’t really decipher: he seemed suddenly upset and tired. Mostly sad.

“‘Cause…” he started, then paused. He collected his thoughts while swallowing and looking away, breaking their locked stare: “‘Cause you needed me.”

David just breathed, in and out, shakily, waiting.

“Because you spoke about sharks and apparently you had a fishing boat? Because you look sad and defeated lately and I don’t… understand. And now I do, because I saw that boat.” tried his best to explain Joe, still looking outside the car, at the boathouse entrance, at the beach behind it.

“You have scars and broken ribs and a limp and…” he shook his head, pausing: “And I know now it was because you…” he made a gesture with his hand, toward what was outside, what he’d seen, the boathouse.

David didn’t know how he had wanted to end that sentence: you had a boat accident. You almost drowned. You almost died.

“But mostly it’s because after sixteen years, after what happened to you, the thing you did was… you came to me.” said Joe, forcing himself to look back into David’s eyes: “And maybe it’s ‘cause you needed me.” he concluded.

David could hear both their breath in the stillness of the car, after that.

“At first I didn’t notice, ‘cause it was much more clear how I was the one in need of a help.” added Joe, breaking the awkward silence: “And it’s true, that too. But not just that. And I get it now.” he nodded firmly, once.

There wasn’t much else to say, so David kept silent. He sighed and closed his eyes and, after a few heartbeats, he unbuckled his safety belt and wordlessly agreed to switch seats.

Once Joe was at the steering wheel, he turned the car on and drove out of the parking lot and up the road, to reach the highway.

Lost in his thoughts, David didn’t even notice when they had reached the outside of his cottage and how Joe had dutifully parked beside his taxi.

He saw Joe turn the keys and heard the engine stop and he sat there, still motionless.

“I’m sorry.” said Joe then, like he had thought long about what to say, while he was driving, while David was being useless on the passenger seat: “It must have been a hard blow. I’m sorry it happened.” he added.

And strangely enough, his words didn’t sound as empty and circumstantial as when Carl Sanders had said them.

David nodded, clenching his jaw. He wasn’t really ready to talk about it.

“Why is that... “ asked then Joe, hesitating only for one instant: “Why don’t you cry?”

It was so sudden and weird. What a question.

“I can’t think of a time when you did… I never saw you cry.” pointed out Joe, like the notion was so strange, so unlikely: they had seen things, they had done things… they must’ve all cried at some point. David must’ve cried at some point.

Joe had, in front of him.

“My father.” replied David, and it felt like the first time he had heard his own voice in a while. It sounded off, somehow: “He never wanted us to cry, said it was the first sign of a weak spirit.” he explained, like he would a dull topic, something he studied and knew well but wasn’t enthusiastic about.

“He ignored us when we cried as babies, he asked for us to be taken out of the room when we threw tantrums and such. He never hit us, but he used to punish us psychologically…” he paused then, memories of his childhood emerging chaotically, all the more confused: “I think something snapped inside me at some point and I stopped doing whatever it was that annoyed him: cry, express my opinions, exist in his proximity, be queer and loving art and culture more than laws and economics.” he concluded.

“He sounds awful.” commented Joe, without missing a beat.

David shrugged at that: “He’s just a type of father. My parents are that kind of people that should’ve never had kids. And they had three.” he grimaced.

_ I should never have been born _ , he thought then, darkly.

“Would have been better if I hadn’t been born.” he said, deciding it was a clear enough thought to express.

Joe didn’t even hesitate in replying: “But then we would never have had you.”

David almost laughed at that: “And what a shame that would have been. You’d have lost the best soldier in Easy…” he joked.

He looked at Joe then and he noticed how the other didn’t seem as amused by the conversation. He looked serious and somehow concerned.

“I wouldn’t have had you.” said Joe, plain and simple, as if David was being difficult.

Like he was purposely avoiding acknowledging these facts.

“Ruth and Hannah wouldn’t have had you. You wouldn’t be right here, keeping me focused, fighting with me, making me question my life choices…” he said, and it was obvious he was trying his best at expressing his thoughts.

David felt grateful, at that moment, for not having gone alone to the boathouse. For having someone telling him he was sorry for him and meaning it, saying he was needed, he was still important to someone.

Joe seemed to believe it.

“I sailed because I didn’t want to be a burden to others anymore. I didn’t want people to have reasons to hate me or avoid me, like my father did.” he said, and it came straight from his heart, from the bottom line of his stream of thoughts: “Now I can’t anymore.”

“Then stay on land and… face those people. You may find out they like who you are.” suggested Joe, and a small, shy smile was curving his thin lips: “More than you give yourself credits for and more than you believe.” he concluded.

David shared his hopeful smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a silver lining, something he could reflect upon thinking back at everything that had happened that day. Hopefully, a fresh starting point.

To where and for what, he couldn’t tell at the moment. And Joe was helping, but he for sure couldn’t have all the answers David needed.

They stayed in the car a few minutes more, waiting for nothing, but needing it nonetheless.

Outside, the sun was setting and painting the sky behind the cottage of red, orange and pink shades. The breeze was getting stronger, probably colder than it looked.

Somehow, it felt very peaceful.

“Sorry for the mess, I haven’t been around much.” said David as soon as he opened the front door to let them in. He didn’t know how long Joe wanted to stay, but he figured he had to at least try to be a good host.

The thing that looked mostly in disarray was the coffee table: he put down on it almost every junk he didn’t know where else to store, so it was always filled with papers, letters and empty cups. The bag from the boathouse found its own place on it as well, since he really didn’t have the stomach now to look at its content again.

“How long have you had it?” asked Joe, looking around with his hands in his pockets, his focus shifting from one thing to another without lingering on anything in particular: David’s house wasn’t anything in particular to begin with.

“The house, I mean.” he specified.

“Almost ten years, but it was my family’s before I came to live here…” replied David, reaching the kitchen to brew some coffee for them both.

Joe hummed, touching the back of David’s armchair as if to test the fabric: “It looks cozy. The girls would love it.” he reasoned, sounding like he was talking to himself.

“They can come over whenever they want to.” shrugged David, turning to look at Joe’s puzzled expression.

“Yeah, I guess.” he replied, stepping one foot closer to the corridor that lead to the bedroom and the back porch.

David let him explore: there wasn’t much he owned that he could deem as too private, anyway. This sea cottage was never his home, just a docking point.

“How did it happen?” asked then Joe, and David had been too preoccupied with the coffee to realise he was now standing closer to him, in the kitchen, leaning his back against the table.

Joe wasn’t asking about the sea cottage anymore. He was intensely looking at David, waiting for an answer, but at the same time ready to rage if David would once again try to lie or avoid a confrontation.

He felt cornered, despite being the one standing in the middle of his own kitchen, the table and counter position preventing Joe any abrupt movement.

“I was out fishing. There was a storm.” he confessed, his voice dropping to a lower tone. It was like he was admitting defeat.

Joe sighed, loudly: he had been holding his breath for it. David didn’t know why: hadn’t he seen the boat? Hadn’t he known already?   
Joe had always been smart, perceptive even. It was the reason why he had been a swift, efficient soldier. The reason why now he was being a good father to his daughters.

Maybe a direct admission was all Joe truly had needed.

“Are the scars and bruises all because…” he asked, without even being able to finish the question.

David nodded: “Concussion, two broken ribs… but I guess you’re not interested to the whole medical record.” he shrugged.

Joe made another strange movement, something like a shiver: he lifted his right hand to pass it over his face and through his hair, pushing them back. The afternoon’s wind had done some mischief in them, making Joe’s usually perfectly combed and styled locks fall into every other direction over his forehead. They looked like waves. Dark, deep and soft.

“When?” he asked again and this time his voice sounded strained. He was trying to contain himself, something he would never have done in the past: the Liebgott David used to know would already be yelling at the moment, fully enraged, sharp and beautiful.

“September 9th.” replied David. It was the first time he had said the date, despite having it engraved in his memory by now, through the words of the doctors and the many papers he had signed at the hospital. Day of admission: September 9th.

“Fuck, Web… okay.” Joe sounded and looked wounded, in pain. Something wasn’t right about Joe and David couldn’t tell what it was.

“Okay, just… you’re okay now? You’re not…”

“It’s been two months, Joe…” he tried to minimize.

“You almost drowned, you _sonofabitch_!” exclaimed Joe, raising his voice, making David recoil: “You almost died, Web.” he repeated and it looked like he almost couldn’t believe the words he was speaking, as if they were too absurd.

“I didn’t, though. I don’t remember much, truly… just a long sleep. Some pain. Not much else.” he felt the need to say.

“Why are you  _ downplaying _ it?!” blurted Joe, bewildered: “How can you?!”

“This is me, okay?!” he replied, this time unable to prevent himself from raising his voice to match Joe’s tone.

“You?! You overreacted for a bruise on your shin and stayed in a fucking war hospital for three months!” spat Joe, purposely to hurt David with painful memories.

“This is how I face this whole mess. Me.” he specified, pointing at himself, purposely ignoring Joe’s attack: “It’s my own life, Joe, you don’t get a say in it.” he added.

Joe’s expression of betrayal was like the shock of a cold shower on David’s back. He almost felt his wounds prickle and hurt at the sight.

“Then why did you come to me?” he asked, his voice lowering back to a bewildered, almost wondering whisper: “If you didn’t want me to know or to worry… to  _ interfere with your life _ . Why did you?” he asked, openly this time. Curiously.

Silence fell between them and it felt like they both were at loss of words. The were both considering this notion, so strange, unfamiliar.

David was once again facing the possibility of lying: find a good enough excuse to play it safe, like it hadn’t been a big deal, a monumental step he took in his life, on par with joining the paratroopers or buying a boat and moving to California.

_ Would Joe know if I lied, right now? _ he thought, stepping a foot back and turning away from the other man, looking outside the kitchen’s window.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows under their parked cars, the few trees up the road, the other cottages’ walls. The wind was still blowing, strong, lifting waves of white sand.

_ Would it make any sense to lie, at this point? _ he added, hearing the complete lack of noise inside the small room, wishing he was outside, in the windy road or on the beach, not to be able to hear Joe’s quick breathing.  _ Why am I always lying to him? _

“I kept seeing you.” he admitted then, slowly. He was weighing every word, considering it carefully. He felt his speech get steadier and steadier as he went on: “When I was under. Comatose, right before waking up at the hospital. I kept dreaming about you, memories from the war… even ones you weren’t even present. And then I think I heard your voice.” he said, plain and simple: “Waking me up. And when I was awake I thought I didn’t know anything about you anymore. And I wanted to.” he turned toward Joe, trying to decipher the wave of emotion that was morphing his expression.

“Why me?” asked Joe after a while, confused. He was clenching his fists, looking helpless, in the middle of David’s kitchen.

Joe had never looked so out of place in his life.

“I don’t know.” he breathed in reply.  _ Was he being honest now? _

The coffee pot whistled.

He kept himself busy by serving coffee to the both of them, while Joe stood there, silent and motionless, watching him with his dark eyes clouded with worry.

They sat in the living room, Joe in David’s armchair by the phone. They drank their coffees, not even trying to make small talks.

David thought it was getting late: if Joe had to drive back to Frisco and get the girls from his mother’s house (or wherever he had left them, hopefully not alone at home again), he’d better hurry. But he didn’t say anything. He sat in silence instead.

And Joe didn’t move from the armchair, only shifting in his seat from time to time, crossing and uncrossing his legs and looking around the room like he hadn’t been doing that for the past hour or so. There wasn’t even that much decorations and furniture to distract himself with.

“I sometimes dream of you at the top of that hill in Zell am See.” he said after a while, so suddenly his quiet voice boomed in the emptiness of the room’s air. He bent slightly to place his finally empty cup on the coffee table, then sat straighter against the backrest: “Sometimes you’re the one who shoots, some other time you take the pistol out of my hands.” he went on, as David listened.

He could only listen.

“I don’t know what it means. At times I think I see you in a foxhole in Bastogne, too. But there’s too much snow and everything is exploding, as it was… as always.” he winced slightly, but went on: “I don’t remember you in Landsberg.”

“I was there.” said David, helplessly.

“I know. Of course. I just don’t remember.” whispered Joe.

David knew what he meant. He had been in that cold bathroom that evening. He had covered for Joe on translation duty that night.

“Do you see that man still? That Nazi officer?” asked David, unable to stop himself. He knew he did.

“Every time I close my eyes. All of them… I see all of them.” he sighed then, shifting his awkward position on the armchair once again: “I guess… it can’t be helped.” he added.

David nodded, placing his lukewarm cup of coffee next to Joe’s. He sniffed, shivering slightly. It was dark outside. It was getting colder, too.

He didn’t feel much like moving at the moment, weighted down by memories. By Joe’s presence, his voice filling the empty space around them, the room he called home, but really wasn’t.

“We did those things.” he stated.

“Yeah.” agreed Joe.

_ We had to _ , he thought.  _ When we were there, we had to. We can’t be blamed. But we are the ones carrying on, living with those ghosts. _

“You’re the smart one, Web. Tell me what it means?” asked then Joe, looking into his eyes. He could’ve sworn he was even smiling slightly, just a raised corner of his thin red lips.

“What?” he asked, searching relentlessly for an answer already painted on Joe’s expression. There was nothing he could grasp, not a hint. Joe was, at times, so difficult to read.

“We see each others in dreams and we’ve spent the past sixteen years wondering what the other was doing.” explained Joe, placidly, like how he would reply to a question posed by Ruth or Hannah.  _ The moment something happens, you come running _ , he hadn’t said, but David had heard it anyway.

He almost replied ‘I don’t know’ once again, but stopped right on time: he couldn’t. Not now. Joe was trying to give meaning to the past months, to the past years. He was asking for answers and David had them. He knew.

_ You love him _ , he was telling himself, over and over. His mind was filled with his own voice accusing him of knowing exactly what had been going on all along, what he had realised one evening on a San Francisco cable car, what he could not comprehend for years and years after the war.

_ You love him  _ and he sighed, closing his eyes.  _ What a mess. I did. I do. _

“I’m in love with you.” he said and he was left surprised by how steady his voice had been. He probably couldn’t let it waver on something so important.

The echo of his words lingered in the air. Nothing moved for seconds which felt like hours.

Their eyes were locked and still David couldn’t tell what was going on behind Joe’s breathless, confused expression. Was he imagining a hint of hope? A fracture of happiness?

Joe moved slowly, without making a sound: or maybe David couldn’t hear him anymore, over the blood rushing in his ears.

Joe was getting up from the armchair and David thought:  _ he’s leaving _ . He felt panic rising, the need of saying more, something else, to lie again. But he was somehow pressed down, sitting straight on his chair, feet and back so still they felt like they were made of marble. He couldn’t even find his voice, his mind.

Joe didn’t leave. He got closer to David and David thought:  _ he’s going to punch me _ for a crazy moment, unable to read Joe’s expression, his dark eyes even more concealed by his long locks of messed up hair.

_ Is he angry? _ asked dumbly his mind as Joe leaned forward slightly, curving his back, placing his hands on David’s shoulders. The touch felt like an electric shock through his skin: he gasped, transfixed by Joe’s stare. At least until the other man closed his eyes.

David felt his warm breath over his open lips and then, as he wondered about his (or was it Joe’s?) too loud heartbeat, they were kissing.

Joe Liebgott was kissing him.

\---

**Notes:**

I stand by everything I said in the notes of past chapters. Once again, consider I made up most of Web's backstory, family and heritage for the story's sake.

As I said at the beginning, this chapter has been very difficult to unravel and write, way more than anticipated. I feel like the hard part isn't even over yet and it's gonna take at least one chapter more to districate all the complexity that is Web and Lieb's relationship, but we're getting there.

Lastly, once more, I want to thank each and every one of you who read this fic in the past months. Those who gave it kudos and left comments and who made me feel like the time I spend plotting, thinking and writing this fic isn't wasted. I hope this chapter is of your liking as well, if any one of you is still interested in reading it.

Please consider leaving a comment with what you think of it and/or come say something to my very much neglected lately Tumblr blog: @brightly-painted-canvas

Take care, be happy!


	7. October 24th - October 25th - October 30th - November 17th - November 22nd - December 7th - January 3rd - February 20th - March 15th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While trying to organise for the umptheenth time all the papers and documents in his makeshift office, spread on every living room’s surface available, he found an old journal. Dark leather bound, with pages yellowed and wrinkled from age and usage.
> 
> He frowned, stopping altogether to sit back on his armchair, unfold the single string wrapped around the book and peering inside, reading from the first page that opened randomly in his hands:
> 
> _February 1945. Haguenau._
> 
> It was his war diary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has serious issues with smut and angst. Proceed with caution.
> 
> Same warnings as the first chapter, more notes at the end of the chapter.
> 
> If you have questions or you want to talk about this fic, come have a chat on Tumblr @brightly-painted-canvas.

**October 24th.**

David’s body reacted on its own accord, his hands finding Joe’s waist to pull him closer, his lips responding to the kiss, opening to the sudden warmth of Joe’s mouth on his.

Joe sighed as David gently pulled him down to sit on his legs, moving his hands from his shoulders to the back of his head, tangling his fingers into his short curls.

He tasted coffee on their lips, could smell the salt and wind on their skin and it was suddenly all so intoxicating: like something breaking loose inside of him, making him forget himself, the too many unanswered questions, all the hesitations he still had that until then had prevented him from acknowledging his innermost feelings.

Now they were surfacing with ease, exposing themselves in the movements of his body meeting Joe’s, a tingling sensation on his raised skin, under the tip of his fingers… so powerful he was breathless, drowning in Joe’s kiss.

“Web…” rasped Joe, eyes closed, breaking the long string of slowly softening kisses by leaning their foreheads together, just the tip of their noses brushing, their laboured breaths colliding, promising so much more.

“Mind showin’ me the bedroom?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, a dark, deep suggestion sending shivers down David’s spine.

He took too much time to reply, his words lost in a gurgling jumble of thoughts inside his head. So Joe got up in the heavy silence surrounding them, gently taking David’s hands off of his body and pulling on both David’s wrists.

David followed, standing on unsteady feet, but somehow kept upright and guided around by Joe’s pushes, his slighter body never straying too far, his warm mouth now attacking David’s jaw and collarbone, the side of his neck.

They reached the bedroom door, only slightly ajar, and pushed it open to tumble inside, Joe not even sparing a second glance to consider its very scarce decor, contrary to what he had done for the rest of the house: he immediately located the bed and guided David down on it, pushing and pulling gently to get him where he wanted.

Apparently, he wanted him in the exact same position where he had sat on the living room’s chair, as he wasted no time straddling his lap again, cradling his head upward to once again meet his hungry kisses, force his back to bend and David’s hands to support their weight pressing behind him, on the mattress.

“Joe…” he puffed, the name almost lost in a deeper breath, a barely contained moan.

Joe shushed him, the corners of his red red mouth curving upward oh so slightly, his dark eyes flickering open just a fraction, to reassure him, ground him.

_ He wants this _ , David thought, with certainty,  _ he wants you. _

_ How is it even possible? _

“Joe,” he tried again, this time cut short by the need of biting his lower lip, keeping himself from groaning loudly as Joe moved downward, arching his back, kissing and biting his neck. His face was still held tight in Joe’s grip, unable to move it away if he wanted to. He didn’t want to.

“Shut up.” said Joe, just a breath, a barely amused tone. He straightened his back and opened his eyes to gaze once again into David’s one.

Their eyes met and David understood the silent, but desperate request behind Joe’s intense stare:  _ he needs this. Let him have it. Let him get it from you. _

And he knew he would, in that moment, surrender everything to him: finally disinhibited in his giving, in his powerlessness to deny Joe anything.  _ He shall have it. All, everything. It’s his. _

He surged up in a bruising kiss, his hands suddenly all over Joe’s body, his slim waist still covered in his white shirt, his chest, shoulders, the acute angles of his jaw.

They kissed and breathed and moaned and gasped while hastily removing their clothes, stumbling on hands and elbows toward the centre of the bed until David’s head hit the pillow and he pushed himself up just so he could invert their positions, pressing Joe down and underneath him.

Joe’s breath caught and his eyes shot open, his dark irises completely blackened by pupils dilated with lust. David felt his body immediately reply to the other’s reaction, his erection now straining under the confinement of his underwear.

Joe’s right hand traveled down David’s now naked back, softly caressing his old bruises and scars, not lingering on the feeling of soft raised skin, dips and bumps until he reached David’s buttock and pressed, forcing their fronts to meet.

They groaned and instinctively arched their backs to prolong the sensation, by then both too far gone, surrendering to lust and arousal. Their erections rubbed together, through two layers of thin clothing.

Until Joe ordered: “Off.” in a shuddering breath and David complied, lowering their briefs down their thighs enough to free their cocks and push Joe’s hips down by pressing heavily on him.

They humped like animals, groaning and crying out like dying men. David’s mind was so lost in sensation it only offered a stream of obscene profanities and Joe’s name endlessly repeated. His heart jumped in his throat every time Joe moaned, small and high-pitched sounds, way past the effort of keeping quieter.

It was a dry, almost painful business of too much heat, need: Joe kept his eyes closed, his hands gripping David’s back and arms, the back of his head, tangling in his short curls. David lavished his panting mouth with kisses, licking his jaw, biting his long pale neck until he found the white scar from Holland and pressed down on it, muffling a deep groan on Joe’s skin, hiding his face as he tortuously reached his climax.

He came over his hand and Joe’s stomach, biting his lips to keep from choking out Joe’s name and whatever else his traitorous mind couldn’t help but spill out in that moment, all his feelings and emotions amplified and tangled, a mess too complicated to unravel.

He kept quiet, trying to quiet down his breath, still matching Joe’s panting as he kept fucking into David’s wet hand, following right after as he too released with a cry.

David, transfixed, couldn’t help but study his face: contorted in exertion, blissful as he orgasmed, slack in satiation. He slowly opened his eyes, immediately finding David’s blues to meet his awed gaze.

What David could only describe as a miracle happened then: Joe smiled at him, a breathless, small but true, private kind of smile. He was blushing for the strain and maybe for the prolonged attention, but that didn’t feel unwanted.

_ God _ , David thought, finding a lead, a single thread to follow to untie the yarn of thoughts in his mind,  _ he’s beautiful. And he’s here, with me. _

He bent down to once again press their foreheads gently together, the tip of their noses brushing as their breaths steadied, their heartbeats slowed and they came down from the high.

_ He’s sitting on the back porch, his legs off the edge, toes sinking in the dry, hot sand of the beach. _

_ His hands are busy peeling carrots and potatoes, to get a head start on dinner: the peels fall to the cloth on his lap, while the clean vegetables are put in a bowl by his side. Next to that there are still his book and his reading glasses, momentarily discarded. _

_ The air is warm, but a nice breeze is slowly rising from the sea: it carries Joe and the girls’ voices, playing with the waves crashing on the beach, writing with a stick on the wet sand, splashing their feet in the crystal clear water. _

_ The sun is about to set and the weight on his shoulders feels like one of days well spent, surrounded by love and beauty. Family. _

**October 25th.**

David woke up before Joe. Judging by the soft white light streaming from the window, he considered it had to be early morning, maybe around 5 or 6 am.

During their spent, tired sleep they had shifted, as he found himself pressed against Joe’s back, his soft dark hair almost tickling David’s nose, his shoulder slowly rising and falling as he breathed steadily.

Right in the middle of David’s field of vision laid Joe’s neck, naked and defenseless: the white scar covering the side of it, marking his skin with a round, undefined stroke, like a hazily painted half moon.

David resisted the urge to bend and kiss it and slowly, carefully got up, silently looking for his clothes. His body ached all over, but he pushed down the groans trying to escape from his throat. Once sure Joe hadn’t been woken up from his movements in the room, he reached the kitchen, looking for the coffee pot.

Only after he had brewed a cup and took the first sip he let himself think back of the previous day’s events leading to him and Joe having sex in his sea cottage’s bed. He formulated this clear sentence in his mind and shivered.

He had Joe Liebgott, naked in his bed, sleeping.

_ How? _ he asked himself, glancing down at the dark liquid inside his cup, like it held all the answers to his worries,  _ why? _

He mindlessly poured another cup, while still trying to process his thoughts, his recent memories.

After an undefined amount of time, he heard the usual faint scratch on the bedroom’s window and slowly walked back in there, taking the second cup with him: as he had predicted, Aida was loudly asking to be let inside, mindless of the man still sleeping on the bed.

Joe had woken up and was by then sitting on the bed, hand in his hair trying to push it back, put it in order: the sheets were pooling around his naked torso and on his lap, his skinny legs crossed underneath them.

David’s breath caught in his throat and Joe noticed him, shifting his gaze from the cat outside the window to David’s unsure posture and wide eyes.

“Is that your cat?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep.

“No. Just a stray in the neighbourhood.” he replied, crossing the room to open the window and let Aida in. She was already purring, headbutting his extended hand before jumping down and speeding toward the kitchen.

“It seems to know the place.” commented Joe, shifting so he could pull his knees up.

“She’s acquainted with the tuna tins I keep in the kitchen.” he almost snickered, taking a few small steps toward the bed. Joe had smiled at his words, but then his expression had shifted and he had looked away.

Silence fell around them, a heavy and uncomfortable one, charged with tension.

“Before… everything there is to mull over and freak out about, here’s coffee.” said David, offering the still warm cup in his hand to Joe, who just took it silently, thanking him with a nod and a quick, unsteady glance.

His long, slender fingers wrapped around the cup and David saw them trembling just slightly, immediately thinking:  _ he needs to smoke _ .

“Should I go get your cigarettes?” he offered.

“I finished them.” replied Joe. He was looking down at his coffee, the position mirroring the one David had stood in for long, not many minutes before.

_ He smoked a lot yesterday, in the car and on the sofa _ , David thought. His mind was fruitlessly trying to analyse Joe’s behaviour, like he was a case for an article on David’s list, a stranger met the night before and not the man he had loved and meticulously studied and thought about for two decades.

Fighting his thoughts and the fear that was now slowly rising from inside, gripping its cold fingers around his windpipes, he sat on the bed next to Joe and slowly, carefully weighed his words before saying: “We can end this now, or whenever you want.”

“This?” asked Joe, looking lost, confused. He gazed into David’s eyes then, searching.

David stood silent, waiting for Joe’s reaction.

It came in the form of a slow shake of his head.

“I don’t know why I did something so stupid.” he heard Joe say, the words falling like stones down David’s throat and weighing into is chest.

David looked away, hearing Joe’s wet intake of breath and dreading his next words.

“It’s not fair.” said Joe, his voice wavering: “It’s… wrong. I did it all wrong.”

David closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, trying his best not to intervene.  _ He’s right, he’s right, he has all the rights to regret it _ , his mind supplied.

“Web… David, look at me.” called him softly Joe and suddenly his warm hand was on his arm and he couldn’t resist meeting Joe’s eyes, not when he had called his name, not when he had sounded so pained, not when he looked so much in distress.

“It’s not you.” he said, tears in his eyes: “Understand?”

David nodded, like a liar. _ It is, it is, it is. _

“I need to go.” were Joe’s last words before David felt the cracks of the earth opening and rumbling underneath them, the heavy air oppressing them from above. They were falling.   
Or at least David was.

“It’s fine.” he said, forcing a fake smile on his lips: “I’ll stay away for awhile. We need… time.” he added, encouragely. He wasn’t believing his own words and, looking at Joe’s pained expression, neither was he.

After that, there was only silence. David stood and walked out of the room, giving Joe his space and privacy, time to drink his coffee, put on his clothes and leave.

When he heard Joe’s taxi starting and driving away, he was sitting on his back porch, his naked feet touching the cold sand of the morning. His gaze fixed on the blue sea, calm and reassuring, so distant from the pain in his chest, the emptiness in his heart.

**October 30th.**

It took David four entire days to change the sheets on his bed and clean the half-empty cups of coffee he and Joe had used. In the meantime he thought, he walked on the beach staring at the sea, he slept (barely, not much) on his living room armchair, he fruitlessly tried to work.

Five days later, nothing smelled like Joe’s cigarettes and cologne anymore. The sea breeze had already swept most of the lingering smell off (if there was even one to begin with, David wasn’t sure if he was master of his own senses anymore), the rest did the washing machine and the detergents.

He sat for long hours on the back porch, sometimes completely alone, some other times in Aida’s company. She would curiously look at him, like she couldn’t understand his lame dark mood, his sadness, his hollowness. Then she’d climb on his lap and purr until he gave in and started petting her.

For five days she had been his only companion.

At night the nightmares came more persistently, which was the reason why he tried to avoid sleeping altogether: dreams of drowning, of Landsberg, of gunshots and green hills… even the dreams of Joe and the girls, of quiet, content days at sea, were now sources of such deep regret and anguish he woke up violently, sputtering and breathing heavily.

The realisation he had made a big mistake, an unforgivable misinterpretation, hit him hard during those days. He had only himself to blame for Joe’s anger, his retreat.   
He had confessed his love in the worst way, in the wrong moment: he had accepted Joe’s affection when he should have refused him, talked to him. He took advantage of him, of Joe, the man he loved.

He was a mess and he didn’t even have alcohol to drown his misery in or the will to go buy some.

Five days after the night he messed all up with Joe, David figured out he could at least use the time to start his book back from scratch. Now that most of his notes, sketches and research were gone, he had to rely on knowledge and memories to get his work back at a decent spot.

He wasn’t sure he could muster the strength and presence of mind to complete something even vaguely publishable, but he had nothing to lose at that point: it wasn’t like he could go back out, at sea, looking for sharks. He had lost that privilege.

Better put his sudden abundance of free time to at least partial good use, he reasoned.

While trying to organise for the umptheenth time all the papers and documents in his makeshift office, spread on every living room’s surface available, he found an old journal. Dark leather bound, with pages yellowed and wrinkled from age and usage.

He frowned, stopping altogether to sit back on his armchair, unfold the single string wrapped around the book and peering inside, reading from the first page that opened randomly in his hands:

_ February 1945. Haguenau. _

It was his war diary.

The discovery filled him with astonishment: he hadn’t come across this particular journal for at least ten years.

After the war, once he got back to the US, the first thing he had done was reorganise his memories and thoughts into something publishable. He had spent days, weeks and months feverishly curved on his grandfather’s typewriter, skipping dinners with his refound family, ignoring phone calls from his atheneum asking if, since he was back and in seemingly good shape, he was still interested in attending classes and getting his degree.

He had gone to Europe to serve his country, but as an aspirant journalist and war reporter, he had known to keep everything recorded, in words and sketches, in as much detail as he could. Many in Easy and previously in Fox had mocked him for his habit of taking out his journal during quiet times, sitting down to write on it while the others just ate or slept or chain-smoked cigarettes waiting for orders.

His leather journal had survived the war just as much as David had: never lost in hasty advances and retreats, never forgotten in billeted houses and under bunk beds, never shred to pieces by blasts of enemy artillery like some of the other’s bags and personal possessions.

It was still in one piece in his hands, battered and yellowed but still perfectly readable. He flipped through the pages, reading short sentences and words here and there just to conjure memories so vivid he felt his breath stop in his chest. Reading names of places, of people, fellow soldiers, long gone and almost forgotten little adventures…

At Janovec’s mention in his memoir, he stopped reading, heavily closing the diary and placing it back on the desk.

What had he done with all of it in the meantime? With all these facts, things that happened, keepsakes of a time past that still meant so much for so many people?

He vividly remembered the day he had finished the book, looking at the completed manuscript ready to be copied and sent out to any publishing company of which he could get the contacts. He had sat at his desk, smoking one of his mother’s long and slim cigarettes, gaze lost on the branches and leaves of his parent’s garden outside the window and thinking:  _ it’s done _ .

But after that quiet and content moment, after the initial rush of adrenaline and excitement for having finally finished his first work, he had only met a series of disappointments and delusions.

The war had been over for almost two years. The public was by then divided between people who only wanted to forget about that blasted time in their recent past and people who the war hadn’t touched much and, bless their innocent souls, hadn’t known what David and his fellow soldiers had known and seen and witnessed.   
Each and every publishing company to which he had tried knocking at the main office’s front door had kindly but firmly refused to accept his manuscript, someone even arching an eyebrow at David’s appearance: why did someone like him, wealthy and eloquent and clearly coming from New York’s best youth, write a book about something so grim?

After many attempts, he had stopped trying.

Finished school, got his degree, got an internship in a newspaper company and developed his fascination with sea discoveries and the ocean creatures' lives from there on.

If his emotional baggage of unexpressed thoughts about what a pity and nasty business had the war been for every last one of the private soldiers wasn’t of people’s interest, then maybe he could cultivate his passion for something as foreign to the public’s imagination as the failures and dark sides of the American military system: sharks.

Thus, his great escape to the West.

Ten years had passed and he hadn’t possibly taken another look at his failed attempt at narrating his experience abroad, fighting against the greater evil, serving his country and a bunch of pompous and snotty men in high uniform and decorations.

But there in his hand laid the most innocent part of this whole project, the proof that his past happened, that it had been recorded.

David started searching for the whole manuscript.

**November 17th.**

One week after sending the manila envelopes to New York at the nearest post office, David called his brother John and his sister Ann.

They each had a list of names, numbers and addresses they had agreed to contact on his behalf, that side of the country.

David took care of California’s publishing companies: he traveled up and down the state, looking for people, having fruitless business meetings, shaking hands.

Whenever he had to get to San Francisco, he felt a pang of regret in his heart: many times he wondered how Joe and the girls were, if he could visit, if he could see them…

They hadn’t spoken or seen each other since that day.

**November 22nd.**

It was the day before Thanksgiving.

David had just hand-delivered a few articles at the newspaper office when he found himself walking near Ruth’s school district. His feet took him all the way to the building, finding he was in time for the last bell’s ring, as he noticed the usual crowd of parents outside the gates.

He held his breath, then closed his eyes and turned around, walking away before he could let himself stay and wait for Ruth’s exit.

He had promised, after all.

**December 7th.**

The 6th day of Hanukkah. David didn’t know why, but he had started keeping count.

Looking at the dark, cold sea outside the window while gently stroking Aida’s soft white and golden fur, so warm while she sat and purred in his lap, he thought of Ruth and Hannah.

He pictured them lighting up the candles, day by day, with the help of their father or their grandmother.

He thought about her then, asking David to stay. Funnily enough, he remembered Charles Grant saying almost the same thing.

He realised then that, despite his best intentions, he hadn’t listened to them.

**January 3rd.**

1962, then.

David received an invitation to an Easy Company reunion with the first mail of the new year.

He placed it on the coffee table and waited the entire day to open it. When he finally gathered the courage to get his paper knife, he found it signed by Bill Guarnere and his wife.

It was a lovely, well-written letter.

With absolutely no mention of previously forgotten invitations during the past years.

**February 20th.**

For Hannah’s birthday, he sent a present: a very large and colourful seashell he had collected on the beach and thought she might like, and a sketch of a big white shark he found in his old notes, one of the few that didn’t drown at sea.

He knew he could have gotten something better, something more expensive, something she could wear or play with.

He sent it anyway, with no return address.

**March 15th.**

He walked through the windswept streets of San Francisco, slowly and aimlessly, after a good meeting with an editor interested in war memoirs from veterans.   
Finally, something seemed to be stirring up for his book.

A sudden gust of wind made some old brown leaves on the pavement fly in front of him, landing on the steps of a building to his left. He lifted his eyes casually, noticing the closed shop, the dusty window, the old and rusty banner, the ‘on sale’ sign.

It was a barber shop.

\-----

**Notes:**

It always takes me so much time to write a new chapter that I always end up asking myself if I'll ever gonna have readers still interested in an update. It's a shot in the dark every damn time. I am extremely sorry to keep you waiting, but it's always a struggle with this fic and I truly can't write it faster than this.

My mediocre (if not worse) capacities at writing smut are more than evident on this one, but I hope I made up for it with the angst afterwards (I've heard some readers like that...). I know this chapter seems particularly confused and doesn't offer much explanations to what is going on between Web and Lieb, but in the next one there is gonna be, predictably, a big confrontation which is gonna make sense... I hope.

As always, thanks for reading and remember that comments and feedbacks are greatly appreciated. I have a Tumblr blog if you prefer chatting there: @brightly-painted-canvas

Take care and have a lovely time!


End file.
